


Child Left Behind

by o0kaymawn0o



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anxiety Disorder, BDSM, Blood and Gore, Bloodplay, Bottom Sam, Childhood Trauma, Crazy Dean, Dark, Dark Dean Winchester, Death, Detective Sam, Eventual Happy Ending, Evil Dean, Evil Dean Winchester, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic Description, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, Mental Instability, Mind Manipulation, Non-Consensual, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Dean Winchester, Rape, Revenge, Rimming, Serial Killer Dean, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Slavery, Slave Sam, Stockholm Syndrome, Top Dean, Trust Issues, Unrelated Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Unrelated Winchesters, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-16 22:27:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 40
Words: 89,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1364005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o0kaymawn0o/pseuds/o0kaymawn0o
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam, the boy who lost it all when his Mother died before his very eyes. </p><p>Dean, the man who challenged Sam to return the favour one day, by killing him as payback. </p><p>Two worlds collide many years later. Sam, now Chief of Police in his district, using all of his resources to find the man with the green eyes that tore away his childhood. Dean, back in town to collect on the other Children that he left behind all those years ago.</p><p>When they meet, they fight. However, what they're fighting for has changed. Sam still wants to get revenge for the death of his Mother, but Dean's angling for something else. Sam has grown up big and strong. He's put his whole life in to preparing himself for this day. He's also extremely handsome, and something worth breaking. </p><p>Dean's interests turn to something wicked. </p><p>Sam's life changes forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sixteen Years Ago

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS A VERY DARK FIC FROM MY MESSED UP MIND!!!! O_O I JUST LOVE PSYCHO DEAN--ESPECIALLY THE PART WHERE HE TORTURED ALISTAIR. Honestly, I couldn't take my eyes off him for a second! Anyway, there will be an eventual happy ending for Sam... Not sure if that will be with Dean, or if he'll kill him. I can't see myself writing anything where Dean dies, but you'll have to wait and see, I guess. o-o I already have most of everything planned out in my head.

 

_ _

_Sixteen years ago…_

Sam Wesson had been on his way home from school. His mother had promised him that she would make his favorite if he scored a hundred on his test that day. Spurred on by that, Sam had managed to score the required amount. He hadn’t paid that much attention to the teacher’s appraisal.

All he cared about was his parents.

He hummed to himself as he approached the house, already imagining the food his mother would cook later that night for him. She’d ask him some follow up questions to keep his brain active while he ate. Sam hadn’t minded. He wanted to be successful when he grew up, and all the training he had been doing was going to get him there some day!

Opening the gate, Sam ambled through to the front door. He rummaged around his pocket for his key then unlocked the door. He grinned as he ran inside, throwing his bag to the floor.

There was a funny smell in the air, however he had chosen to ignore it, as he had been focused on changing into more comfortable clothing.

Sam bounded into his room, attacking his draws for some pajama bottoms and a vest. He managed to get changed in under three minutes. He lifted himself up, ready to go find his mother when a hoarse cry ripped through the air, freezing the blood under his skin.

He hadn’t been sure what to feel. His instincts, though faint, told him to get out of the house and never look back—that he wouldn’t like what he’d see.

Instead, he ignored them. He rushed out of his room, clambering down the stairs. Another scream tore at his heart strings. It had sounded like it was coming from the basement.

“Mommy?” he yelled, opening the door.

It had been pitch black. He hadn’t been able to see anything.

“No! Sam, stay back! Get out of here. Leave, do you understand me?” his mother begged him, her voice broken, strained and bruised.

Sam had ran down the stairs. He turned on the last step, ready to cry out for his mother when he slammed into something hard.

He had fallen to the ground, right on his butt.

The light clicked on. A man he hadn’t known lingered by the switch, an unreadable expression on his face—Sam couldn’t make sense of it. He had been petrified by the sight of it, though.

His blood had ran colder than before. His body hadn’t listened to him. Only his eyes and his ears had worked. He had seen his Mom tied to a chair, her wrists bound to the sides and her ankles locked together.

Sam had no idea what was going on.

There was blood dripping down his mothers’ face—scars had littered her body.

“Mommy?”

She glanced at him, tears gathering on the rims of her eyes, ready to fall at a moments notice.

The strange man had cackled madly, stalking closer to the pair. He grabbed a chunk of the woman’s hair, pulling her head back.

“Please…” she begged, staring up into scorching green apathetic eyes. “Don’t hurt my son… Not Sam, please! He’s just a child!” she yelled tightly, her throat scratchy from all the screams.

“Hey, kid,” the man uttered, getting the boy’s attention. “Say your last words to your Mommy,” he joked, slicing the knife clean across her neck. “Oops, my hand slipped. My bad.” He dropped the head, joyfully watching the blood drip from the wound, circle around the back of the bitches neck and pool around the floor.

Sam couldn’t move. Nothing was working. All he could feel were the tears leaking from his eyes, and all he could see was the apologetic look from his mother right before the knife came down.

He had been terrified. He wanted to get out of there, to get away from this mad man! He wasn’t strong enough to do anything—he was weak—he was _just_ a little kid!

The man stalked over to the young boy. He crouched in front of him, lifting his chin, relishing the fear abled body beneath him. This was what he liked to see. That look of terror, and that ignition of fire starting brightly behind those scared, brilliant hazel eyes.

Yes, this one he would allow to live.

“Your name’s Sam, right? Well, I’m gonna go ahead and call ya’ Sammy. My name’s Dean. Remember that name okay, kid? When you’re older and stronger, I want you to seek me out. When you do, try and kill me. It’ll be fun,” he informed strongly, ruffling the still child’s brown hair.

He had wiped the knife he used on his jacket and then started up the stairs.

At the top, he had turned, peering down to the bottom. “See ya’ then, Sammy!” he declared, cackling psychotically.

The smirk on his face had already started haunting the boy. That blood smeared face. Those sharp, remorseless green eyes…

* * *

 

Sam screams awake from his nightmare, slamming his fist through the closest wall. His breathing is heavy and sharp. His body is slick with sweat, and he’s shaking from fear and anxiety.

_My name’s Dean. Remember that name okay, kid? When you’re older and stronger, I want you to seek me out. When you do, try and kill me. It’ll be fun—See ya’ then, Sammy!_

He hasn’t forgotten. He’s going to find that bastard… And when he does—Lord have mercy on his soul.


	2. Torn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam finds out Dean's in Lawrence. He tracks him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may seem quick... But there's a lot more to this. XD

“Cameron?” Dean questions, jumping down from the counter to his feet. His eyes hold challenge and malice as he watches the child left behind.

“Dean Winchester. I’m here kill to you,” Cameron announces, pulling a gun from his pocket. He cocks it then aims for the smirking man, firing several times at once.

Dean dive-rolls out of the way, enjoying the look of pure hatred aimed towards him. He draws a throwing knife from his pocket and swiftly tosses it through the air, laughing when the tip sinks into the hole of the gun, and his laughter changes to a wild cackle when the gun reacts without control.

Cameron drops it. He isn’t sure how that happened! He had been firing, then all of a sudden the gun refused to work how it should!

This doesn’t matter to him. This isn’t over yet. He reveals a machete and charges at his family’s killer, his gate strong and his moves nimble.

He slices the air. Dean shifts to the right to avoid a jab. He uses Cameron’s momentum against him, turning all the pent up rage on the user. Dean pins Cameron’s wrist to a wall, then brings his knee up hard into the side of the man’s hand.

The machete flies out of his grip.

Dean catches it, turns a smirk on his victim then decapitates him on the spot.

“That wasn’t very fun,” he mopes, dropping the weapon to the floor. He sees no point in clearing up the evidence. Anyone that comes after him ends up dead. Most of the police departments in the area have stopped trying.

Dean sighs, bored for the time being.

Evidently, he needs to find something to do—or someone to do!

* * *

 

Sam yawns as he enter the work place. Images from his nightmare just won’t seem to leave him, no matter how much medication he takes. The prescription states that the drug stops anxiety. Fat load of truth that is, considering his current condition.

“Morning, detective!” someone greets.

He passes them without saying anything. There’s only one thing he’s interested in doing, and all the files were in his office.

Ambling through the stalls for several minutes, Sam finally locates his office. He locks the door behind him and pulls up a chair. The day he became a detective, Sam gave an order that anything and everything relating to the mass murderer Dean Winchester be placed on his desk before he got to work each day.

Most of the time, it turned out to be idiots looking for a few seconds of fame claiming to be the man. He’s become very famous over the years. Twelve years and Sam still hasn’t found him.

He’s strong enough now. He’s ready to take revenge for his Mother and the countless other lives that lunatic has taken over the years. No, Sam will not stand for it any longer.

When he finds Dean Winchester, he’s going to kill him. It doesn’t matter if he loses his job. Hell, it doesn’t even matter if he’s sent to prison for the rest of his life for his actions—he’s going to end that man.

Once and for all.

Nothing will get in his way.

Falling onto his seat, Sam starts up his computer. He should be receiving coffee from his assistant in a matter of minutes. He desperately needs one. After his dream, he wasn’t able to catch a wink of sleep.

Dark circles are heavy around his eyes. He’ll be surprised if he can make it through the whole day without falling asleep at his desk. It’s happened a few times since he’s worked here.

For some reason, his boss is very easy on him whenever such an occasion occurs.

Sam likes to think the guy has a soft spot for him. He is one of the greatest detectives in Lawrence after all.

There’s no interesting emails in his inbox. Only reminders that he has some reports he needs to write up. His memory isn’t lacking, so he still has plenty of recollection of those events, and he’ll circle back to that when he has the time.

Sam flattens his hands on his face, groaning at nothing. He removes them, loosens the joins then hovers over his keyboard, ready to begin profiling his new cases, based on the knowledge he’s gathered from victims and witnesses.

Before he smashes a single key, however, a manila envelope attracts his eyes. He snatches it from his desk. Quickly, he opens the top then pules out the case file, influenced first by the pictures displayed underneath a paperclip.

Removing the paperclip, he shuffles through the photos, trying to make sense of them. It’s some man he’s never seen before laid out on the floor, his head centimeters from his chest.

A feeling of nostalgia bubbles in his stomach.

Carefully, he drags his eyes over to the information—widening when he sees the name Dean Winchester in bold lettering. The forensics team have managed to find a sample of his DNA from the crime scene!

They picked it up off the throwing knife inside the guns shooter.

This is what he’s been waiting for! Dean Winchester is in Lawrence! Now, Sam has his chance to exact his revenge.

Finally, he’s going to kill Dean.

He’s going to kill Dean Winchester!

All his other cases will have to wait for now. This is going to be the focus of his life until he finds that man. Until he finds that monster, and silences him at long last.

Sam bursts out of his office, running steadily toward the forensics lab. He has to make sure they’ve told him everything he needs to know to begin his operation—if there’s anything that’s been left out in the report.

He barrels into the lab, stopping just next to the head of forensics.

“Bobby, is there anything else you can tell me about Dean Winchester’s last kill?”

“You can’t just go barging in here, _detective.”_

“Sorry, uh. But, anything? Please, it’s important?”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. I’ve heard the story. All I know is the attack happened not four hours ago, so it’s possible that Winchester hasn’t gotten too far,” the man informs, whispering something to a staff member.

“As you know, Sam, not a lot of guys are willing to go after a character like him… He took out a whole squadron on his own. He’s skilled, and he don’t go down easy either…”

Sam’s fists tremble. “I’ve experienced him first hand, Bobby!”

“You were a child, idjit!” he snaps in reply.

“That was sixteen years ago, boy. You might be a detective, but he’s been playing this game for years now. He’s taken down countless detectives that have been foolish enough to go after him on their own—“

“What are you getting at?” Sam cut him off, impatient and tired.

Bobby pauses, looking away from the man he’s become so close to over the years. “Sam, I want you to promise me that if you go after him, you don’t go alone. I don’t doubt your abilities, son, but I do doubt that wacko’s ability to hold back!” There is no going back for Sam. He wants revenge, and he intends to get it. Bobby knows this. He just can’t have him being reckless and so clouded by rage that he forgets his sense of danger.

“I promise,” Sam lies. If he gets the chance to take down Dean Winchester and his team aren’t there, he’s not going to let the opportunity slip.

“Good.”

* * *

 “I forgot how many I let live here,” Dean mumbles, unamused as another one of the children he left behind slashes at him. He made a mistake with this one. They aren’t challenging at all.

He could have killed them multiple times already.

Well, he’s done toying now.

“Die!”

“Nah,” he replies, thrusting the knife through the girl’s stomach. He yanks it out brutally, admiring the scarlet liquid running down the edge of his blade.

“You’ll die soon,” he says, making his exit.

He yawns as he turns the corner, a hot shower in mind. All of the kids here so far have been a huge disappointment. His judgment must have been really off when he came here sixteen years ago.

Well, one of them is bound to be strong.

_A challenge._

A figure appears in front of him. There’s anger and vengeance leaking from the subject. Dean takes a closer look. This one seems familiar, though he can’t quite place a name to the body.

Then he sees those dazzling hazel eyes under a mop of brown hair, the sun casting a few shadows across a flushed face. This is the one he’s been waiting for! That look of pure disgust is turning him on! What he wouldn’t give to have a look like that aimed at him, while he thrust into a resistant body…

The very thought makes his cock twitch.

He smirks at the furious man, stepping closer toward the specimen. There’s a crookedness to his lips as he faces his favorite orphan.

“If it isn’t little Sammy… Or should I say big Sammy?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Sam snarls, tearing his gun from its holster.

“You’re turning me on Sammy… Making me so hard…”

“What?” he snaps, confused.

Dean’s grins menacingly. “The way you look at me… Your eyes so full of hate and scorn—it’s perfect!” The killer shakes with desire, a bloodlust setting his skin on fire. He wants to torture this man. He wants to tie him up, cut into him for hours then clean the wounds with his tongue! He wants to make him bleed from his ass, then he wants to drink all of it, save some in his mouth, and spit it into Sam’s—make him swallow it…

His eyes light up with passion.

“I’ve decided, Sammy!” he shouts hotly, his muscles twitching with need. Need to rip the man apart, while at the same time fuck his brains out! He’s torn…

_So torn…_

The detective’s eyes flash with fear at the bloodlust radiating off the psycho. Maybe he should have listened to Bobby? Maybe he shouldn’t be all on his own against this man? His killer intent is unquenchable…

“Wh-What?” he remarks, steadying the weapon in his hand.

“I’m gonna make you my toy!”

 


	3. You Brought This On Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean fight. Who wins? Who loses?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm surprised people have been so taken by this story! Haha! XD

What the hell is this creep talking about? He wants to make Sam his toy? What kind of sick bastard would go from murdering someone’s Mother, to declaring he’s going to use them as a pet?

Dean Winchester, apparently.

Sam’s eyes harden with anger. He can’t believe the arrogance of this guy. He’s just stood there with a ridiculous smirk on his face, waiting for Sam to make the first move. His confidence and malice is terrifying. Nevertheless, this is Sam’s chance to take revenge for his Mother!

“You told me to come find you when I was older and stronger, and try to kill you—“

“Yes, and I assume that’s why you’re here. I’m interested to see how much you’ve grown, Sammy, but,” Dean cuts him off, drinking in the sight of the man before him with pleasure. This psycho’s voice is so gravely and deep—he’s grown a lot older, too, since that day. There’s a scratch to it, and each word held an underlying of amusement.

“I’m much more interested in turning you into my bitch!” he mutters, narrowing his eyes in challenge.

Sam scowls hotly. “Sixteen years ago you took the life of my Mother, and you suddenly want to make me your toy? Yeah, that’s not happening, Winchester. Today one of us dies. If it isn’t you, it’ll be me, but I refuse to kneel to you in any way!” he snaps, done with talking to this mad man. He just wants to end his putrid life with one blow. It might now be as easy as he hopes, however he’ll put everything into killing him!

Amusement flashes across Dean’s features. He brings his knife up and instigates a _come and get me_ action, which has Sam running toward him, moving his gun up—setting it for Dean’s throat.

Dean ducks in time when Sam fires. His feet fly forward and smash into the taller man’s ankles. He crashes to the ground—his gun falling from his hand. Dean kicks it away from his reach, then grips the collar of Sam’s shirt.

He smirks devilishly, forcing him up onto his feet.

Sam regains his composure and slams his head into Dean’s nose. It works, and he’s released from the hold. A joyful laugh emits from the crazy blond, who’s not even bothering to wipe his nose. He laps at the blood gushing down his face and dripping from the bottom of his chin.

“This is _perfect!_ Finally a challenge! Someone I don’t have to go easy on!”

Given no time to block, Dean’s fist connects fiercely with Sam’s stomach, then the right side of his face before a boot-covered foot presses hard against his chest, compelling the brunet onto his back.

Sam cried out when his head falls heavy against the ground.

The sound makes the killer’s cock twitch with excitement. “ _Yeah…_ That’s what I wanna hear, Sammy!” Dean says, crouching over him, grabbing his long brown hair and cracking his head against the ground again, growing harder from the sight of the blood leaking through open-wounds.

He grinds down on Sam’s clothed-stomach, yelling how much he’s working him over—how his expressions of pain are turning him on like nothing he’s ever experienced before. Dean rips Sam’s shirt open, pulling his knife from his pocket. He drags a line down the front, not bothering to silence Sam’s cries with his hands at all.

He relishes every one, then leans down and licks up the blood, smirking with delight at the metallic texture on his tongue.

Moving closer to Sam’s face, he stares deep into those scornful hazel eyes. “You’re bringing this on yourself, Sammy—those eyes are making me wanna do things to you that are illegal in most parts of the world!” he leered, biting Sam’s cheek.

Sam forces himself to calm down, to find his strength. Once he finds it, he head-butts Dean a second time. Dean reels back, the same happy look. He fails to see Sam’s fist coming toward his face. He does hear it slam into his already damaged nose.

The punch is strong enough to throw him off the larger body.

Quickly getting back up to his feet, Sam forgoes reaching for his weapon. He’s afraid if he turns his back on this guy for even a second, Dean will have the upper-hand again. He’s only just gained some ground in this fight, so it will do him no good to create an opening for this lunatic.

“Hot, tough and you have a high pain tolerance? Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. I’m gonna have so much fun with you!”

“Shut the fuck up!” Sam demands, grabbing Dean’s jacket and slamming him up against a door. Ignoring the burning pain along his front, he uses this chance to kick the killer through it. The door lands heavy and loud on the ground. Sam can smell blood in the room—blood that isn’t his own.

“You son of a bitch!” he snarls, ready to stomp this piece of shit to death.

Dean grins, then rolls backward. He stands back on his feet, moving to the next room.

Following with caution, Sam keeps his guard up. He tries to speed into the room, hoping he doesn’t give Dean enough time to catch him off guard.

He’s wrong.

Using his height disadvantage against his prey, Dean leaps onto the man’s back. Sam immediately reacts by walking them to a wall, trying to use his weight to slam Dean into it. Dean’s faster—he rotates them around with his strength and grabs the back of Sam’s head before repeatedly smashing it into the wall.

When Sam’s balance falters and there’s blood all along the wallpaper and sections of the floor, Dean finally relents. He feels for a pulse on the side of the brunet’s neck, grinning wildly when he senses a faint one.

Sammy wouldn’t be any good to him being dead.

Dean feels so hot. That fight made him so fucking hard! He’s so horny right now, and all he can imagine is Sam flattened against a wall, iron poles through his hands, pinning him in place—his legs propped apart, a dildo deep inside his tight hole…

He starts dry-humping the unconscious body, digging his finger nails into Sam’s sides, as he rocks against his toned ass, relieving some of the pressure in his cock.

The image of Sam covered in scars and begging for more shifts to his mind—ending with the brunet sucking Dean’s blood coated dick…

Dean thinks about using blood as lubricant for some of Sam’s penetration—some of it will be from where he cut the big guy, the rest will be from him slamming in so hard that he cuts the walls of Sam’s rectum!

And with that thought, he comes hard into his boxers.

He’ll be sticky for a while, but there’s no doubt in his mind that he’s going to make those fantasies a reality. Sammy’s now his toy and he has lots of plans for him!

He better get started.

                                                                                     


	4. Sorry, Mom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean tortures and rapes Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rape in this chapter! Lots of blood, and insane Dean! :D

“Rise and shine, Sammy!” Dean demands humorously, as he tips a bucket of freezing cold water over the detectives head. It soaks through his clothes, sticking the material to his skin. The action drags him from his unconscious—the second his bearings are intact, he thrashes around, struggling with the binds keeping him in place. He has no idea where he is. The room looks like a scene out of a psychotic thriller.

A table stands several meters away, supplied with tools, like the ones Sam saw in that movie _The Hostel._ Why he even took the time the watch the trilogy is beyond him. He doesn’t recall doing it by choice. He thinks it has something to do with when he stayed with his friend for a couple of days.

None of that’s important right now. His blood has gone cold and he can barely feel his legs. There’s a pulsating pain in his forehead from where Dean cracked him against the wall so many times—where the hell’s Dean?

“What’re ya’ lookin’ for?” he teases, creeping around to show how thoroughly entertained he is. He’s still fully dressed—wearing the same clothes they fought in.

“Untie me.”

“Why would I do that? Do ya’ really think I’m that dumb?” Dean replies, crouching down to Sam’s eye level. He runs his eyes over the specimen’s body hungrily, shoveling some pie into his mouth. He chews on it openly, giving Sam a full view of the insides.

“Your eating habits are disgusting.”

Dean swallows, pauses for a second and then bites the top of Sam’s nose. The man writhes, arching and groaning at the pain. “I don’t give a fuck what you think, Sammy,” he announces, tightening the ropes binding Sam’s wrists together.

Sam’s teeth grit at the initial pain.

“So this is what you do other than kill people?”

“No,” he says lazily, running the sharp side of the blade down Sam’s cheek, his eyes mesmerized by how it cries for him. He watches each tear of blood leak down a pale cheek. He doesn’t appreciate the lack of response, so this time he presses the knife in harder, until Sam screams in pain.

“Mm, that’s what I was waiting for,” he whispers hotly, palming himself through his jeans.

Sam pants, focusing on memories to distract from the pain. The one of Dean slitting his Mother’s throat attacks him and he yells for it to stop, to leave him alone! He can’t live with the constant reminder now that he failed to kill him!

“Even when I’m not hurting you, I’m always there, aren’t I?” he smirks, pleased with himself. “I’ve been checking up on you for a while. You have three therapy sessions a week for your anxiety issues, you have a problem trusting people and you became a detective just so you could find me—I must say even I’m a little impressed,” the killer mentions on the fly, licking the blade clean.

“You are my favorite. That’s not a lie. You took what I said seriously and actually trained yourself for a proper fight, and you even faced me on your one, even though you have the proper connections to launch a full scale attack on me. Very interesting.”

His smirks returns as another groan is torn from the taller man, the knife moving so tantalizingly slow down his cheek. Dean wants the burn to last longer! He wants Sam to feel it in the morning when he wakes up.

“Where are we?” Sam spits.

Dean glances up at him, a grin playing on his lips. “My place. This is my torture room,” he mentions casually, as if he were revealing to Sam what the time is.

“I’m not the only guest?”

“Nah, I’ve brought lots of people here. They were different. More scared—I know you’re secretly terrified and this is all training that ya’ got from the academy or some shit, but you’ll break soon enough.” As if to illustrate his point, Dean tore some of side of Sam’s neck off and spat the skin in his face. Sam’s scream reverberated around the room, the sound going straight to Dean’s cock.

“I’m not a cannibal, but the reaction I get when I chew someone’s skin off never fails… You might wanna cut down on the screaming, though, unless of course ya’ want me to fuck ya’ now?”

Sam’s skin paled in color, the blood draining from his face at the words. This is what Dean means when he says he wants to make Sam his toy? A sex toy? What the fuck is wrong with this man? He’s certifiably insane! He doesn’t show an ounce of remorse in anything he does and—

“Nghhhaaaa!”

“Yeah, baby… That’s it—just like that. One more now,” Dean commands breathily, sprinkling salt over the open wounds and drinking in every moan of anguish, every arch of Sam’s long back, every twitch in his muscle as he tries to break free! It’s all perfect!

Sam wails painfully, his stress levels rising. He’s losing a lot of blood. It’s dripping from his neck, staining his right shoulder crimson, and his cheeks haven’t stopped spewing since the first stroke of the blade!

If any more blood leaves him, he’s going to pass out…

His eyes close for a short second, his vision blacking out as he sinks back into his subconscious.

“I’m not done playing yet!” Dean quips menacingly, slamming his fists into Sam left and right, jolting his fluid head in all directions until Sam gasps awake again, new bouts of pain exploding all over his face.

“You’re not allowed to pass out until I’m done playing, ya’ got that?” Dean admonishes, pouring some salt over his blade before piercing the top of Sam’s thigh.

“SON OF A BITCH!” he shouts, kicking his legs out, reaching for the knife with his bound hands and failing.

Dean chuckles.

He removes Sam’s binds, then pulls him from the pole. Sam attempts to break free, however Dean throws him against the wall, pinning his wrists. “The more ya’ struggle, the more it turns me on. The more turned on I am, the longer I cut into you and fuck ya’ until your ass bleeds, understand?” Sam spits in Dean’s face. Honestly, he didn’t think it’s possible for Dean to grin any wider, but he does.

“Considering you’re a butt virgin, I planned to be a little—Oh, who the fuck am I kiddin’? I was never gonna be nice!”

The psycho twists Sam around and pins his body up against the wall. Sam bucks back, using the strength he has left to push Dean away. It doesn’t work. The man doesn’t move an inch. Sam’s too weak from all the blood loss and the beatings he’s already suffered.

What can he do? Dean’s about to rape him… Sam’s never had anal sex before. He has no idea how Dean acquired that information—he hasn’t even had sex! He’s been so focused his entire life trying to get vengeance for his Mother, so the thought of it never once crossed his mind.

And now look where he is! Pinned to the wall, while this sicko plans to pound him against the wall! How’s he going to get out of this? He doesn’t want this to happen!

He thrashes once more, kicking his legs back to try and connect with any part of Dean’s body.

The smaller man sighs, growing bored, yet not tired of Sam’s actions. He loves the struggling! It’s what makes all of this so fun! But he’s really horny now, and all he wants to do is pound that virgin hole until his cum is leaking down Sam’s thighs, mixed with the blood from forced penetration!

His cock salutes him at the idea.

Dean drags the brunet to the table, throwing him on top of it, pleased when several of his torture weapons cut at Sam’s skin from the force of the blow. Pain blossoms on Sam’s back, the air knocked out of him.

Moving on to better things, Dean snatches some hand cuffs. He whistles _Metalica_ to himself as he connects each side to Sam’s ankles. Sam tries to lift his head to see what’s going on, but his eyes can barely make anything out.

He can vaguely register _Metalica_ coming from somewhere—he can’t spread his legs. What the fuck? Dean cuffed his legs? Oh, shit. This is bad!

“ _I’m a cowbow… On a steel horse I ride~”_

Why the fuck is this psychopath singing Bon Jovi?

“Let me go, Winchester!” he demands, exampling his bound ankles.

Dean completely ignores him, smashing Sam in the face to stop the taller man from preventing the cuffing of his wrists.

“ _I’m wanted… Dead or alive—I’m a cowboy… I’ve got the night on my side~”_

“You are fucking insane!” Sam shouts bitterly, arching all over the place, attempting anything to break out of these shackles! He knows it’s useless, however he’s not just goin got give up.

He’s force back of the table, Dean taking the knife out of his leg at the same time—it’d slid further in earlier when Dean pinned him to the wall; the wound’s open and exposed, bleeding for Dean’s eyes. The brunet’  head connects with a sharp object as Dean pushes his back down. He’s about to struggle when his pants and boxers and ripped down to his ankles.

_“I’m wanted… Dean or alive~”_ Dean continues to sing, as he unzips himself. He pulls his jeans just past his ass and lines his dick up with Sam’s unprepared entrance. He sings the next line as he starts to push in.

“Nghhhaahhh!” Sam groans, his eyes watering form the pain.

Dean’s meeting resistance, but it’s nothing more force won’t solve. “ _And I ride… Dead or alive~”_ he slides in all the way, relishing the tight heat surrounding his cock, while simultaneously becoming overly excited from the wonderful cries of agony and despair from his new toy!

He doesn’t give Sam a chance to adjust. He wants to get off, and this is how he’s going to do it. Starting up a brutal pace, Dean slams into him hard and fast, pressing Sam’s hips painfully against the table with each deep thrust.

Sam’s crying. He’s in so much pain. None of this feels good! Rape isn’t supposed to be a passionate experience, but guys have sex this way and enjoy it, so why did this hurt so God damn much?!

If only he had his phone on him, he could record these beautiful noises Sammy’s making for future times. This isn’t going to be the first time he gets to experience them, however it will be the only time Sam’s virgin, dry hole is fucked royally.

“Yeah! Scream for me, Sammy! I wanna hear the pain in your voice!” he announces, pistoning cruelly, using all of his weight to pound into Sam’s puckered entrance.

Dean really hopes he bleeds…

That would make this day perfect.

“St-Stop!”

Dean’s ears perk up.

He doesn’t relent for a second.   
“What’s that, Sammy?”

Sam lifts his head up, biting his lip so hard he can taste the blood on his tongue from the increased pressure. Each buck of Dean’s hips causes him pain in more areas than one. His legs feel heavy, his eyes are puffy from tears, his hips are sore and his ass feels like someone shoved a knife up there.

His tears have stained the table. He’s completely helpless in this situation. All he can do now is…

“Please st-stop… It h-hurts!”

“Oh, I bet it does! Tell me how it hurts, Sammy! Describe it to me—I wanna a mental image of your pain!”

There’s no humanity left in this man.

Dean feels disappointment that Sam doesn’t describe the sensation! But he’ll make him talk some other time. He’s close to coming, and this night isn’t perfect yet!

He slams in several more times before coming deep inside Sam’s rectum.

When Dean pulls out, the detective experiences relief like he’s never has before. He’s still in pain. Probably will be for a while to come. But at least it’s over for the time being.

Dean’s eyes light up with glee at the spectacle of his cum dripping out of Sam’s puffy entrance, mixed with the bleeding he brought on from such a brutal pounding!

He smirks maliciously, sliding Sam’s suit jacket and shirt up his back, exposing the large expanse of skin that will hold plenty of lashes, or stabbings and permanent scars!

For now, Dean drags his blunt nails from top to bottom, grinning wildly as Sam releases a scratchy groan, his voice exhausted from all the screaming.

Dean did his job well.

He leans over and sinks his teeth into Sam’s shoulder, yanking his head up by the hair as he sucks the skin hard, until a large purple bruise is residing there.

“ _My toy!”_

And with that, Dean chucks Sam to the floor, says he can sleep now and stalks off up the stairs, singing the rest of _Wanted Dead or Alive._

“ _I still drive… Dead or alive~”_

The doors shuts, a small amount of light left in the room. Restless tears fall from the broken body lying on the floor, bound against his will. He can do nothing to forget what just transpired a few minutes ago. He can’t ignore the pain channeling through him.

All he can do is sniffle in the dark room, apologizing to his mother over and over until his eyes become too heavy to stay open.

“Sorry, Mom…”


	5. The Scent of Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean handles his morning wood with the detective he has tied up in his torture room.

Dean wakes up with a huge grin on his face. Everything had gone perfectly. He tortured and fucked Sam, _hard._ And he came, _hard._ It was fantastic. And he could not wait for a repeat performance. He has to go over some rules first with the _detective._ He can’t help snickering at that little piece of information. _Little_ Sammy grew up to be a big shot detective just so he could track him down. All of that effort all for little ol’ Dean. Sam was the first kid that actually took what he said really seriously. They all came after him, one after the other. But they were easy. There was no challenge. They were broken, ready to die—ready to join their pathetic families on the other side. Some he regretted not killing at the time. He misjudged the fire in their eyes, and for that he was sorry. Nothing else. He wasn’t sorry for bludgeoning their parents before their eyes. _Not at all._ It was too fun to feel sorry for.

Shucking his covers off, Dean hops out of his bed, naked as the day he was born. There’s no point putting clothes on. They’re effort, and he plans on taking care of his morning wood with the young man he has tied up downstairs. His dick twitches, faltering his steps. Damn. This brat really got him going. He’s so torn between cutting into Sam for hours, or fucking him repeatedly until the kids a whimpering mess, _blood leaking from his anal cavity…_

His tongue swipes over his lips. He has to be down there now. Unlike most weirdoes who love to drag every last second out, Dean has a more _forward_ approach. It’s not long before he’s in his torture room. The detective is tied up on the floor, his limbs all over the place, body still bare, dry blood sticking to the delicate skin.

“Rise and shine, Sammy!” Dean shouts, clapping his hands together. He smirks when Sam jerks awake, his head connecting with the floor. Dean can practically hear the ringing in Sam’s ears. Pleased with it.

“Get the fuck up. Not time for sleep, kid,” Dean continues, stepping up to the battered form. He runs his eyes hungrily over every ounce of flesh. Today is about teaching Sam his place. Sam fidgets on the floor, coughing violently. When his voice is in working order, he spits out a dry retort. Without even reacting to the insulting words, Dean grips Sam’s long hair tightly and pulls until he can lock eyes with fiery hazel.

He clenches his hand. “I warned you about that look, Sammy… Your eyes make me want to do anything and everything to you. Right now I’m thinking about fucking your ass while carving my name into your skin. Do you want that?” Sam’s head shakes violently, his neck muscles aching from Dean’s intense grip.

“You don’t get a choice in this, Sammy. Sorry, that was my mistake,” he mumbles as an afterthought, dragging Sam across the floor to the _sex_ swing. Except, to Dean it’s a torture swing, but whatever. Labels and whatnot. Sam struggles as much as his binds will allow him, kicking at the air, reaching for anything in his path. Dean ignores his complaints, slapping Sam’s right ear when the detective bites his arm.

Sam’s head swims, his eyes blacking out. His focus returns when Dean straps his legs into an apparatus that he’s never seen before. To him, it’s the stuff of nightmares.

“What the fuck is this, you sick fuck?”

“That’s a pretty little foul mouth you have there, Sammy. Do I need to wash it out with soap and water? Or maybe some bleach would do the trick, what do you think?” Dean questions with keen interest, locking Sam in place. He takes a few seconds to admire his handiwork, wondering briefly if he should put a ball-gag on him.

“You’re insane. I fucking hate you. Let me go so I can put a bullet in your head.”

Dean stops at the serious tone. He outright laughs in Sam’s face like a psycho. Dean ambles over to the table at the side of the room, snatching up his scalpel. As he swaggers back over, catching the look of fear in Sam’s eyes, he rambles on about how Sam’s really not in any position to be barking orders, and how he’s not in a hurry to die, but the detective clearly must be.

“Now feel free to groan and scream, whatever. But quit it with your demands, ‘kay? You may not have noticed, but I don’t _like—“_ as he said this, the scalpel pierced Sam’s abdomen, carving the first line of the ‘D’—“to be told what to do or ordered around—“ he continues, his face lighting up at the groans of agony falling from those stubborn lips—“ya’ better learn your place soon, Sammy boy because I’m not a very patient man. Sure, I like a bit of fight. Who doesn’t? But if you get out of hand—“ he finishes with the ‘Dean’, eyes flicking to the freshly warm blood dripping past Sam’s navel—“I won’t hesitate to kill you.”

It hurts. It hurts so fucking much. Each drag of the blade sends white, hot searing pain surging around his body. He wrinkles his nose in disgust, despite the pain, as the psycho uses the blood leaving Sam’s body to jerk his own swollen cock. Bile rises in Sam’s throat. He can feel it, the burning hot acid crawling up his throat. He leans over the side, screaming as the putrid taste lingers on his tongue before falling form his mouth onto the floor. Dean happily admits that he’s seen worse things happen here, but if Sam does it again, he’ll be mopping it up with his tongue.

Halfway through ‘Winchester’, Dean leans forward, tracking Sam’s facial response as he sinks into the unbelievably tight heat, using Sam’s blood as lube. He hadn’t planned to use anything to loosen the penetration, but he hadn’t been able to resist his temptation to slather Sam’s blood over his cock, and pump himself until he could no longer take it anymore.

Sam still screams at the entry. It’s music to Dean’s ears. The screams are consistent, urging him on in so many ways. He multitasks, cutting his last name into Sam’s skin, thrusts rapidly into the warmth of Sam’s body, and matches pitch with the cries filling the secluded room.

“Go a notch higher, Sammy. Come on, I know ya’ can do it. I’ll stay low, be the backing track. Fun, right?” he says conversationally, violently pounding Sam, the structure of the _torture_ swing rattling with the force. They’re both sweating. Dean laughs as tears leak from the corner of Sam’s eyes.

He starts on the last letter of his birthright, fully aware that some of it’s jagged because of his lack of patience. It’s fine. He can see it’s his name. Sam will be able to see it’s his name. And any other fucker that catches sight of Sam will see it’s _his_ name.

A raging feeling of possession fuels his pace, his balls slapping Sam’s skin, his thighs powerful and most likely leaving bruises, his cockhead sneaking out for a brief moment, only to slam back in and knock the air out of the younger man.

Dean relishes every single moment of it.

As he ends the last stroke of the ‘R’, he flings the scalpel at the dart board he has situated on the wall. It hits the bullseye and he grins.

“Ahhhrrrrgghhhhh!” Sam screams.

Dean pushes his fingers into the carvings letters, sucking his blood soaked fingers into his mouth.

 _“Mine!”_ Dean growls low, feeling his impending orgasm. Sam whimpers, fresh tears falling down his face, leaving dry marks on his skin. Dean leans forward, licking the salty texture away. “You’re mine, Sammy. No one else can have you. If they touch you, I’ll fucking rip them to pieces, ya’ hear?” he snarls like a wild animal, biting down on Sam’s shoulder, the skin easily breaking under his teeth.

Sam whimpers, hating himself for being so weak—not being able to get out of this. He doesn’t belong to this psycho. How is he going to get out of this? He didn’t tell Bobby what he had been planning to do. Are they even looking for him? He doesn’t even know where he is. Only knows this room. This dark room, that reeks of sweat, blood, and _fear…_ If it were a scent, this room would be the personification of it. How many could have been down here? How many has Dean—

“Pay attention to me, Sammy. I don’t like to be ignored,” Dean snaps, slapping Sam clean across the face, looking less than apologetic as he rams in a few more times before filling Sam with his come. Dean pulls out sharply, digging his blunt nails into Sam’s shoulders, holding them there until a new sound of distress is forced out into the open.

Sam doesn’t think he can talk. He doesn’t even know if he’s still crying. All he can see is that smug face. All he can feel are those tainted hands using his body, playing with him, hurting him. All he can see is that same smirk that Dean Winchester gave him the night his mother was killed. 

All he can see is failure. He failed.

_I’m so sorry, mom. This is all my fault._


	6. No Rest for the Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean brings home lunch.

This has become his prison. He has nightmares. Not just about his own torture. Nightmares about the other’s that Dean Winchester has brutally assaulted and raped over the years. Souls that have gone through extreme amounts of torment at the hands of just _one_ man. One disgusting, putrid, psychotic, impulsive man.

He’s drained once again. No water left to leave his body. Dean leaves food for him. He doesn’t want Sam to die yet. He’s having far too much fun with the man to let that happen. If Sam continues to refuse what he provides, Dean will have to resort to feeding Sam through a tube. Dean knows how to set up things such as that. Not that he’s ever had to use it in the past. Most of his subjects accepted what he gave to them and survived until Dean got bored.

Honestly, if Sam simply submitted to him the moment he lacked the upper-hand, Dean would have just fucked him and stabbed him. He has no time for worthless, un-challenging ducklings that can’t tell a knife from a scalpel.

No—Sam’s unpredictable. When Dean thinks he’s close to breaking and learning his place, Sam surprises him by slamming into Dean’s face. It’s been this way for a few weeks now. Each morning, Dean deals with his morning wood, appreciating the carving of his name on that beautifully sun-kissed skin. Although, he has to admit that it looks much better soaked in blood. Once he’s sated for the time being, he fixes up some breakfast for Sam—attempts to feed him with a spoon, however Sam turns his head, refusing to meet his eyes.

Now, Dean could pry his mouth open and hold the stubborn brats nose until he has to swallow the mouthful. The only thing is—that look of pure disgust and defiance has his blood boiling and Sam’s glare has him hard in his jeans in a heartbeat. It can be quite the distraction. Nevertheless, eventually Sam’s survival instincts will kick in and he’ll accept the food, as well as anything else that Dean may have to _offer_ for him.

Right now, it’s the afternoon. _Lunch time._ Dean prepared something _extra_ special for his _house guest._ The megawatt smile won’t leave his face as he drags some douche-y guy off the street down the stairs to his torture room, where Sam is currently hanging upside down from the ceiling. His grin widens when he spots how flustered Sam has gotten, being in that position—all the blood moving to his brain, possibly making him delirious.

“Hey, Sammy, I brought a friend,” Dean says, pulling the black bag he had situated over the panting-douche-y-guy’s head, preventing him from seeing the light until Dean decides that he can.

Sam’s reaction is priceless. His eyes widen, mouth rumbling the first sentence that he’s said in several days. “Let him go. He has nothing to do with this,” Sam chokes out, wriggling his feet, battling the bonds around his ankles.

“Aw, that’s real cute. The first thing you say is an order. Okay,” Dean spits, suddenly furious for a reason he can’t quite explain himself. He marches over to his table, snatches a throwing knife and launches it at the brunet, who cries out in pain as it sinks into his ankle.

Dean twists and knocks the douche out with a clean punch, not even registering the sickening crunch from the impact. He strides over to Sam, his stance full of danger—eyes set and lips tight with anger, jaw locked, suffering tension. Steadily, Dean pulls his switch-blade from his pocket, and, in a single motion, slices the rope holding Sam in position.

As Sam falls, Dean catches him around the waist, laying him out carefully before roughly prying him up, rotating his form then wrapping his hands around Sam’s throat, bearing down on the muscles underneath his touch, sharp green eyes trained on hazel.

“You listen to me and you listen good, Sammy. I don’t take orders from nobody, understand?” Dean tightens his hold, kneeing Sam in the groin when he tries something. The younger man can’t even groan in pain at this point, his oxygen too restricted to produce anything more than choked sounds. “Ay, ay! None of that. This can get worse for you, ya’ know? I’ve been doing this for years. And don’t think for a second that you’re the first to resist me, ‘cause you ain’t,” Dean’s tone is ice cold, with several undertones of humor, eyes tracing every emotion sweeping over Sam’s lost complexion. “Count your lucky stars that I enjoy a bit of _defiance—_ but I _hate_ orders. I’ve always hated them. Sometimes I think _they’re_ what made me the way I am,” he mumbles seriously, voice lowering, almost a breathy whisper. His hands leave Sam’s neck and claim his shoulders, edging Sam further to a battered wall. “Daddy told me not to change the channel. _I changed it anyway._ Daddy told me not to slit his throat. _I did it anyway._ I did it _anyway,_ Sammy. And he was my old man.”

Sam’s cheeks pale, all the blood that was previously there retreating. How could someone—even a fucking psycho kill his own father? For telling him not to change the channel? What the fuck kind of response is that? Dean’s clearly not a sociopath. Their minds are warped by environment and their upbringing. Abuse is usually the start—mental or otherwise. Sexual abuse is a key element to sociopathy. From what Sam’s witnessed being Dean’s prisoner, nothing of the sort happened to the man. He’s just fucked up in the head. Completely and utterly. He has the mentality of a fucking child that refuses to go to bed at the time that their parents tell them to, or if their toy is taken away from them. That is what Dean Winchester is. A sick man, yes. But more importantly, he is a defected child that doesn’t wish to ever grow up or live by the rules of society. And the worst part is that Sam is his captive.

Forcing himself to speak, Sam narrows his eyes.

“You are disgusting. I would rather you just kill me than have to deal with a sick mother fucker like you—“

“I fucked _your_ Mom,” Dean says, grinning ear to ear.

“Wh-what?”

“Yeah. There was no cliché crap either. Wasn’t a repair man. Wasn’t a religious nut looking for a moment of her time. Just plain old turned up at the door and the rest was easy. Couple of flirtatious remarks and we were in bed—“

“You shut the fuck up right—“ Dean silences him with a swift punch.

“ _Don’t_ interrupt me.” He smiles as Sam dribbles blood down his own chin. “I was so good she passed out. When she woke up, I had her tied to the chair. I’d been watching you for a good week, Sammy. Looking for the right moment to _ignite_ that fire in your eyes,” he finishes sternly, maneuvering Sam’s head until they were eye to eye.

“And what a great decision that was.”

He lets go of Sam’s head, dragging him by his placid arms over to the unconscious body on the floor. Dean kicks the form in the side, pleased when he registers a wheezing noise, signaling that the douchebag has awoken. He rolls him over with a single hand movement, then places Sam over him, naked legs spread apart either side of the douches hips.

Sam’s focus is edgy as he pushes himself to recover from earlier, mind a haze of grotesque images. He doesn’t sense the knife being placed in his hand.

“What the hell, man? Get off me!” The douche rages, struggling under Sam’s weight. Sam’s not even looking at him.

He’s not even aware he’s on top of someone.

Like a devil in his ear, Dean whispers, “Wanna relieve some of that anger that you feel, Sammy? Go ahead. Stab this douche as many times as you want,” he encourages, barking an order for the squirming human to shut the fuck up. Sam’s head bobbles, his limbs feeling extremely heavy. “Come on… I’m a bit harder to kill. But this guy right here is helpless. He can’t get away from you, Sam. You’re in control here. You have the blade…” Without realizing he’s doing so, Sam raises his hand, clenching his hand round the knife. He draws it up, eyes still a mask of what they were ten minutes ago, when he had so much resolve to save this poor _victim._

“Go on, Sammy. It’ll make you feel better… You can pretend it’s me if you _want_ to,” Dean husks, guiding the hand with the knife closer to the douchebags chest.

_He fucked my mother._

_He used her… To get to me._

_But… This guy—he didn’t do anything. He’s innocent in all of this!_

Dean crouches, cupping a hand over Sam’s right ear. “ _What if I told you that this douche is a queer-baiter, and when I found him, he just got done beating the shit out of a thirteen year old—“_ Cutting himself short, Dean watches in amazement as Sam thrusts the knife into the douches heart. Grins as Sam repeats the actions. Laughs maniacally while Sam plunges the blade into the man’s body, one after the other, the younger man grunting with the action, pupils blown wide and movements speeding up. He stabs and stabs, transfixed on the light fading from the man’s eyes—conscious of Dean’s psychotic laughter at the display—conscious of his own…

_Excitement._  

 


	7. All We Have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's reaction to his first kill.

When his composure finally returns, and he sees the man beneath him, blood flowing from the corners of his slightly parted lips, how his hands are covered in red liquid, slowly hardening against his skin, he screams, hands shaking violently as he drops the knife by his side, fingers carding through his hair drastically, as if trying to make sense of the image before him.

Dean couldn’t be more pleased with the scene in front of him. Sam, practically tearing his hair out as he comes to the realization that he just killed an _innocent_ man. He played dirty. He had to, otherwise it would have taken a lot longer to get the younger man to this point, where he can no longer hold on to that bit of self-awareness that tells him that it’s _wrong_ to take the life of someone who really was just a douche-y weirdo. Frankly, Dean imagines that the world will be better off without him in their society. He’s nothing of importance. There’s nothing special about him. It’s not like he’s beneficial to the world.

Sam’s quaking where he remains seated over the lifeless form. What the hell did he do? What the hell is wrong with him? He’s a detective… It’s his job to keep people safe, not stab them in the heart. In the back of his mind, he remembers the lingering words from the psychopath currently laughing his ass off, as if this is a comedy that’s supposed to be absolutely _hysterical_ —Dean had said something about this guy being a queer-baiter, which is disgusting… It doesn’t justify taking matters into his own hands.

After a few more minutes of silence on Sam’s part, Dean’s laughter dies down, softening to low rumbles, until he finally collapses on the floor, seemingly spent. He rolls over and lays his head in the blood, comforted by the cool substance soaking into his hair.

“Well, well, Sammy. Look what you did,” he says casually, grinning up at him.

The other man doesn’t hear it. He turns to the side when his stomach cramps, spewing sick all over the floor. Dean rolls his eyes, recalling how he had ordered Sam not to do that. For now, he’ll let it go. He doesn’t usually grant second chances. Respecting the circumstances, though, he’s willing to crack on.

“Oh, come on, Sammy. It’s not that bad. If you want, I can rip his heart out for you—we could count how many stab wounds there are. How does that sound?”

All that’s coming out is bile. He’s denied himself food for too long. Only stomach acid remains. It stinks. Wretched. Like him. Like Dean. How could he even feel the slightest bit excited—the slightest bit _turned on?_ He’s not crazy. Not like Dean. Not like that son of a bitch.

Dean groans. “You’re taking all the fun out of this,” he grits.

Sam’s shoulders shake from the heaving. As he senses Dean’s anger at him for not finding this scenario _funny_ and like nothing even happened, he swivels his head, fixing Dean with the coldest glare he can muster.

“ _The fun_ out of this?”

“Yes,” Dean replies plainly, his expression bored.

“Why did you do that?”

“Do what? I didn’t do anything—“

“You made me kill him, you bastard!” Sam yells, the life coming back to his voice and features.

Dean smirks, slowly running his tongue over his lips.

“I like that look on you.”

“What?”

“That look. You’re so fucking sexy, Sammy,” Dean breathes hotly, taking a second to yank the throwing-knife from Sam’s ankle, smiling when Sam wails in pain. “And when you make those sweet, beautiful sounds, I just think you were made for me—that we were meant to find each other—“

“We didn’t find each other, you psychopath!” To his own surprise, Dean recoils at the words, a flash of hurt appearing in his eyes. Sam almost wanted to laugh. Why does Dean seem so shocked? Does he not remember the way they fought to the death before he woke up here, bound against his will? Sam remembers. It wasn’t that long ago. Although, two weeks in this place seems like an eternity.

“I _wanted_ to kill you. I still want to _kill_ you. Now more so than ever. You’re sick. You’re disgusting. And I _hate_ you,” he remarks, standing on shaky legs. Dean’s not moving. His eyes are trained to the floor, jaw set. When Sam takes a step towards the door, thinking that this may just be his opportunity to escape, a rough hand snares his ankle. Sam bears his teeth to keep the howl of pain down. He can’t afford to continue giving this mad man the satisfaction.

In a flash, he’s face-down on the floor, a heavy weight settled on his back, pinning him in place. Dean’s fingers card through his hair and pull him back, his neck straining at the effort to hold himself. “You—“ Dean blinks and inclines his head to the side. “You don’t mean that—“

“Yes I do.”

“ _No,”_ Dean declares, for once gently kissing the side of Sam’s neck, adding pressure to his lips and flicking his tongue over a sensitive spot. Sam’s body reacts to the softness without his permission, neck shifting, allowing the older man better access. His mind if a flurry of curses, demands and accusations against himself and his biology.

Dean sucks hard on the pulse point, adding the slightest bit of teeth to the mix. “You don’t hate me. You can’t hate me—“ he cuts himself off, rolling his hips into the naked skin beneath him, achingly hard in his jeans from a simple positive response.

Sam isn’t sure what to do here. This crazy son of a bitch has never done anything nice to him in the two weeks that he’s been his captive. He’s carved his name into his skin. He’s raped him at least six times a day. He’s smashed his head into the wall repeatedly on occasion, due to Sam’s loose tongue and boisterous orders that Dean Winchester clearly doesn’t appreciate. Dean’s drawn scars onto his skin for hours, fascinated by the blood leaving his charge. Dean Winchester has done everything _but_ be gentle with him.

It’s truly starting to mess with his head. He’s finding himself rocking back into the bulge—allowing his mouth to fall open, mumbling words of ascent, that he enjoys the ministrations of the older man.

Dean continues to ramble.

“You’re my special Sammy. You can’t hate me. You’re not allowed to hate me. I’m all you have in this big, wide world. You’re confused, baby,” he whispers, his tone full of concern and sincerity.

As Sam begins to warm to him, Dean hides a smirk. He has to do this if he wants to keep Sam with him. If, by chance, those douchebag cops that Sam hails from managed to find where he lives and do a search and rescue while he’s out, he’ll never see the kid again. But, if he—occasionally, throws Sam the wrong way, have him believe that this is more than just _torture,_ Sam will come running back to him without a seconds thought. Dean’s never done this before. Never been sweet with someone. But he’ll do it to keep Sammy with him. Sam’s become his bread and water.

It used to be that he’d have the urge to cause pain, and he’d go down to his torture room, finish off his prey, then he’d be sated for a while. Now, the second he leaves the torture room, his body urges him to get the hell back in there. Sam escalates the bloodlust within him. It’s something about the younger man that has him all riled up.

He’ll show Sam what he can do. He’ll make it good, even.

And he’ll make it clear that Sam is never allowed to leave him.

“You’re _mine,_ Sammy. You know that,” he reminds, peppering kisses down Sam’s back, pleased as each muscle relaxes under his touch.

“ _We’re all we have.”_

Sam’s eyes widen as a hot tongue swipes over his rim. “ _All we have,”_ he breathes in reply.


	8. Turning Tables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being sweet isn't his thing, but he'll do it to make Sam want to be here.

“Relax, baby, I’ll take care of you. Like I _always_ do. Everything will be all right,” Dean soothes, easily sliding a finger into Sam. He wiggles it around in the right areas. In order for this to work, he’s going to have to be _gentle_ and _loving_ or whatever. Dean knows how to make men and woman cry with desire—he just enjoys seeing them in pain. When they enjoy what he’s doing, he feels the unquenchable need to sabotage—force them to scream in agony instead. He’s the only one that is supposed to be taking satisfaction from the act, in his mind.

This situation is different. He wants to keep Sam around. Also, he wants Sam to want to be around him. He’s never felt this need with anyone before. There’s something that the young man has that Dean craves, and he intends to draw out every drop until Sam is nothing—a shell of what he once was.

That’s a nice thought.

Sam… Following Dean’s every command without question, however still reacting to every bit of torment Dean has to dish out in the same way that he has been doing for the past couple of weeks. Dean doesn’t want Sam to lose _that_ part of himself. Just everything else.

He smirks when Sam moans, his body moving back against the intruding finger, needing to feel more of that intense pleasure that he’s never experienced before. It’s not hard to connect the dots that Sam’s a virgin. Well, he _was_ a virgin before Dean got his hands on him. Still, he’s a virgin in other aspects. Like, for example, reaching orgasm without touching himself.

And Dean will bring him there.

It’s going to be _oh_ so sweet.

As Dean adds a second finger, he continues to plant the seed. “Shush, Sammy. You were confused. You didn’t mean to brutally murder that douche for _no_ reason—“

“He was a—“

“I know, baby boy. Shush. Let me take care of you,” he husks, carefully stretching Sam open, fascinated by how effortless it is for Sam’s body to unlock for him. All the other times, it resisted everything. Which is stupid because that only makes it hurt more. Nevertheless, Dean’s enthralled by the way Sam’s walls separate for him. _They will only ever do this for him._ No one else can have his Sammy. No one can ever have him like this.

If someone so much as touches this man, or even breathes on _his_ Sammy, he’ll tear them to pieces. And not for fun. They’ll need to understand that what belongs to Dean Winchester _belongs_ to Dean Winchester. There is no other way around it.

Those dick cops better think about their own lives if they want to march in here and take Sam away from him.

His movements roughen without his notice. He mutters a simple relax then returns to being gentle, not noticing that his topic of thought has riled him up like it has.

Sam’s shifting on the ground, squirming under Dean’s ministrations. “W-Why are-“ Dean silences the young man with a kiss on the back of his neck, soft and caring. Dean hums a soothing beat into Sam’s skin, licking a trail from neck to ear. In a swift, almost hesitant motion, he turns Sam’s head to face his own, planting a controlled, simple kiss on Sam’s soft lips.

He holds him there, leaning over his back, eyes sincere. “I’m gonna make it better, Sammy. I’ll make all the shit in this world go away. It’s just you and me,” he says convincingly, and Sam just nods, stuck for anything else to do.

In a beat, Sam registers the sound of a belt being undone, clothes sliding off skin. Then he feels something heavy land on his right butt-cheek. His body tenses up from realization. He’s going to be raped again. Dean’s going to thrust in any second now, not wait for him to adjust, not even slicken the way. He squeezes his eyes shut, preparing himself mentally and physically for the intrusion that is sure to come.

“Turn over, baby,” Dean croons, sliding a hand over his nipple as he works his rigid length.

His movements are uncertain, yet Sam rolls over, spreading his legs because he’s not sure what else to do. Dean looks at him. _Really_ looks at him, as if what he’s doing right now isn’t necessary.

“Sammy… You didn’t think I was gonna fuck you without at least suckin’ your dick first, did you?” To his own astonishment, Sam’s cock twitches at the crude words, his pupils blowing as Dean’s mouth settles around his hardened cock. He’s not sure what to feel. Arousal? Confusion? Distrust? This psycho has yet to do anything to give him any pleasure, and now all of a sudden, he’s crouched between Sam’s legs, head bobbing up and down without hesitation, mouth pulling back for small beats of time to tongue the head with abandon, pulling staggered moans from the younger man.

Sam’s legs branch out further of their own accord, leaving Dean better access. Which he takes, palming Sam’s chest as he engulfs the younger man fully, taking no enjoyment in having Sam’s dick in his mouth. He’s thankful to himself that he washes the guy every day, otherwise this would just be _revolting._

As Sam curses and tries to buck into the heat, Dean repels back, giving Sam a hard look that instills that he never do that again, ever. Sam seems to understand, eyes almost pleading for Dean to continue what he had been doing.

Dean grins wickedly, spitting into his hand and rubbing the fluid over his cock. “Maybe later. Keep your legs held back, just like before,” he rumbles, voice low, bare knees shuffling forward to find a good position before he inches into Sam. He rocks a little, forcing himself to remain calm and not break this thing he has going on with the younger man. He watches Sam’s face, taking a pause after each couple of inches until he’s fully seated, _waiting_ for Sam to show some form of comfort with what’s happening.

There’s shock on both ends when Sam’s hips shift, a trigger action stating that he would very much like Dean to get moving, or do something. _Anything._ It doesn’t hurt… At least not right now. That could be because Dean’s not thrusting at an erratic rate and has actually allowed Sam to relax into the penetration—open himself up for Dean.

Dean wills himself not to howl with laughter. This is just _too_ funny. Not two days ago, Dean had Sam in and out of death. Literally. He drowned Sam in the sink. _Four_ times. Brought him back to life every time. He didn’t know why he did it. It was just something that he’d never done before and he wanted to try it. When he had been in bed the other night, he was thinking of new ways he could _play_ with Sam, and drowning him was the most prominent idea in his mind at the time. So, he went with it. It was fun to physically feel the place where Sam’s heart rested, sense when it was reaching its inevitable breaking point…

No, he can’t get distracted by thoughts like these.

He needs to pretend that he’s a _loving_ boyfriend or what-the-fuck-ever.

Dean makes eye contact with the man beneath him, easing himself back then sliding in with a bit more power this time, marking which angles cause more pain than pleasure to Sam. He tilts his hips the slightest bit, noting that ruthless arch it produces from Sam. On the next seven to eight thrusts, he makes that his target, perplexed by how expressive Sam actually is. He doesn’t need to ask him if anything is good, or if it hurts _too_ much. He can see it all on his face, or in his eyes.

Loosening his reins, Dean allows those subtle shifts on Sam’s skin to guide him through this, for them to educate him on what moves will have Sam a moaning mess, and what will have him crying—no, no. Dean established two weeks ago—more like a decade ago how to move someone to sob uncontrollably.

No, this is just about _pleasing_ Sam.

“You like that, baby?”

Sam answers with a gasp as Dean’s heavy cock nudges his prostate. None of this is making sense to him. Why is Dean suddenly treating him well? Why is he suddenly putting his pleasure ahead of his own? Why does he keep offering lingering touches to his hot skin, and capturing his lips in a searing kiss, as he thrusts into Sam’s tight heat? What the fuck is going on here, and why doesn’t he seem to care in the least?

Dean gets a kick out of the fact that he’s fucking Sam on top of a dead body, tempted to stick his hand into one of the open wounds and see which organ comes out. The thought heightens his sensations, and he cants with a brutal force, making Sam’s G-spot his target.

“You close, Sammy?” Dean husks, rolling his hips forward, stealing Sam’s lips for a brief, heart-stopping kiss.

Sam pants deeply, hesitant hands reaching to palm Dean’s cheeks, lingering on the sweat-soaked skin. Dean doesn’t push Sam’s hands away. His smirk widens, and he plunges as deep as he can go, warning Sam that he’s ready to explode right now. He watches Sam’s cock pulsing, just a few more thrusts and he’ll spill all over his chest.

Dean leads him there in seconds, filling Sam with his seed at the same time as Sam releases all over himself.

“That’s my boy. How did that feel?” Dean asks, keeping himself upright. He has fantastic stamina from over the years, and he isn’t exactly into this part of sex. But soon he can go back to dragging a knife down Sam’s beautiful skin, while he pounds him against every surface.

“Great—“

Before Sam finishes the word, Dean backhands him hard. “You stupid fucking idiot. Look what you’ve done, Sam. Now I have to clean all this mess up, and make sure that the police don’t come barreling down the street after your ass—“

“What? It wasn—“

Dean punches him clean across the face, Sam’s head reeling and falling back against the dead man on the floor. He pulls out of Sam, standing to his feet and pressing the heel of his foot against Sam’s abdomen. “You killed him, Sam. Not me. You stabbed him over twenty times, and now you have to live with that. You’re a murder—“

“No!” Sam screams, covering his eyes with his hands. How can this be happening?

“You got ahead of yourself, as usual. I can’t believe I have to deal with this all again. Isn’t it enough that I already give you everything?” Dean’s eyes were wild with anger and hurt, and Sam felt awful for putting that there. He’s not even sure what Dean’s talking about, but all he wants to do is apologize for some reason and make him feel better…

“Dean, I’m—“

“Shut the fuck up, Sam!” Dean bellows, adding pressure to his heel. “I’ll take care of this. Don’t think for a second that it’s always going to be this way. There’s only so much I can take,” Dean reflects, heading for the door to grab some supplies, hiding the smile from the confused man currently staring at the ground in fear.

“I’m… Sorry, Dean! I’m so sorry! I won’t—“

Shielding his excitement, Dean’s by Sam’s side in seconds, pulling him into a hug and resting Sam’s head in the crook of his shoulder. He kisses his temple sweetly, reassurance in his tone. “Hey, hey, come on now. I’ll take care of everything. It’s just you and me, yeah, Sammy? Okay, baby?” He holds Sam’s head back so he can meet his eyes, putting on a false look of warmth and concern.

Sam allows a few tears to spill, a small smile creeping onto his face. “Yeah. Just you and me, Dean.”

Dean kisses Sam roughly, biting his bottom lip until he feels blood. _“Mine._ ”


	9. Shifting Needs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam sits alone thinking about how he feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse the mistakes, please... I did this on my phone. The next chapter will be longer. This is all I think it needed.

What did he do? How did any of this happen? Sam could have sworn that he never meant to kill the guy. Something is happening to him. It feels as though something evil is trying to breach his mind, to take over and turn him in to something that he's not. 

Is there a part for him to play in all of this? Some inside joke that he's not being let in on? That's even crazier. 

Not too long ago, Dean was being so nice to him--comforting, even. Now, Sam's alone. Dean left to take care of everything. He told Sam that he wouldn't always be sorting out his crap, that he won't be able to take it forever, and if it happens too often, Dean would leave him. 

Dean can't leave. He's all Sam has left now. 

They're all they have in this world. 

That's what Dean said. Sam has to believe that. 

Why does he feel so bad that he disappointed Dean? Didnt that psychopath encourage him to kill that guy? The guy who later turned out to be just some homeless man off the street? Why should he be the one feeling guilty? 

Oh, that's right. Dean doesn't feel anything. Not a single thing. Nothing affects him. He looked at that dead man like he was a piece of dirt on the floor that needed cleaning up. 

Sam curls into himself, pillowing his head on top of his arms. He feels defenceless. There's nothing he can do now other than wait. Wait for Dean to return... Home... 

Since when did he start thinking of this place as a home? 

This isn't a home. No one with a lick of sense would call this place a home. 

Sam shakes his head in his arms, his shoulders shaking with the force of his tears. Honestly, he thought he wouldn't be able to cry anymore--that the ability to shed tears was no longer available to him. 

As the tears fall and leave trails of anguish in their heed, Sam thinks back to his life before Dean Winchester. 

His home. Small, cramped. But perfect. In every way it was perfect because it was home. His home. His sanctuary. It was also where he dreamed. Dreamed of the man who killed his mother. The same man who keeps him as an object for his desires. The same man who practically forced him to go against everything in his nature--and kill a man. 

An innocent man. 

There's no evidence that any of it happened. Sam wishes that it had all been a dream. A violently sickening dream. 

Too bad he lives in the real world. Knows what happened several hours ago now. Knows every inch of this dingy basement--torture room. 

He must be going mad. All he wants right now is for Dean to tell him that everything is going to be okay, even if it isn't. On the other hand, he wants to see Dean Winchester burn. 

Such conflicting emotions flooding his mind and body. 

Too much to handle.

Footsteps announce themselves from the other side of the door. Part of Sam really wants it to be Dean. The other part wishes that it was a stranger who just happened to get suspicious enough to come and check the house while Dean's away. Oddly, Sam can't figure out which one he wants more right now.

Sam doesn't look up when the door opens. It's better this way. With his head down, Dean can't see the tears. That's a good thing. It used to be his pride that was the only thing he had over Dean. If he reveals his weakness now, he'll never make it through this. 

"Hey, Sammy," Dean says soothingly, casting a shadow over Sam's form. Sam refuses to look up. This isn't unusual for the younger man. Neither is the silence. 

Biting back a growl of frustration because he has to do this again so soon, Dean lowers himself to his haunches. Acting tentative, Dean gently urges Sam's arms away from him. When Sam concedes, Dean clasps Sam's head in his hands and kisses his forehead, whispering softly that everything is going to be okay--that he's here now and he won't let anything happen to him. 

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Dean. I didn't mean for any of this to happen...." 

"It's okay, baby. I know. I know. Shush. I've taken care of it. There's nothing to worry about." 

"But there is! What if I do it again--what if--" 

Dean silences Sam with a harsh smack to the face. Sam's head reels, his mind spinning and body trying to act on impulse to protect Sam. But it doesn't. It doesn't because after all the beatings it has taken after so many weeks, it's scared. 

"The more you panic about it, the more chance there is of it happening again. Just forget it. It's done. It happened. And it's over, Sammy," Dean insists, cradling Sam's head once more and peppers kisses there. 

Dean must be right. There really isn't anything that he can do. All they can do is move on. All they can do is.... 

'"Shush. Stop thinking. Just relax. Why don't you come upstairs? You can sleep in my bed with me. How does that sound, Sammy?" 

Sam smiles. That actually does sound great. 

"Yeah. Yeah. I'd like that," Sam replies, allowing Dean to help him to his feet. 

He completely misses the self-accomplished grin on Dean's face.


	10. Drawn Toward the Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam wakes up in Dean's bed--Dean's reflecting on why he doesn't want to kill Sam.

When Dean sleeps, he sleeps. That's it. He doesn't have any fantasies because he satisfies his curiosity.

But recently, he has been having dreams. Dreams of Sam being taken away from him. He's so angry in these dreams. Angry at Sam for leaving with them. Angry at them for taking Sam.

These dreams factor into Dean being so hasty to reach full certainly that Sam will never willingly leave him. As it stands, he's not quite there yet. However, in time, Dean is confident that he could ask Sam to cut off someone's arm, and Sam would do it without question.

That's the goal. For his vision, the approach he's using currently seems to be the best method to take him there.

There are other dreams. The ones where Sam dies.

Those are the worst dreams.

Dean's never cared about anyone before. Ever. No one's life has come before his own since the moment he was born.

What is it about Sam that he can't bare to see him taken away from him?

Unfortunately, as smart as he might be, Dean can't uncover the answers to these questions on his own.

When he feels stirring next to him, he places a gentle kiss on the side of Sam's neck. Sam's body going still at the action doesn't surprise him in the least. If the roles were reversed, he'd be wondering why the hell he wasn't tied to a pole right now.

Dean allows Sam some time to get to grips with the situation. He can almost hear the cogs turning in Sam's head, figuring out why Dean is still holding on to him, and why Dean's body heat is something he actually enjoys, rather than loathes.

That's fair enough. Dean prefers cold, lifeless bodies, too. This is an exception, however. A pleasant one, even.

"Mornin'," Dean says, voice rough around the edges.

A full body shudder attacks Sam's frame. He's never heard Dean's voice in the morning. He's heard his psycho voice, his condescending voice, his angry voice, etc. Never this one. Yes, Sam knows exactly when Dean wakes up and what time he makes his way down to the torture room... But this is different. This is nice, warm, pleasurable to listen to.

Something is changing around here. Sam doesn't know for the life of him what it might be. Nevertheless, he can't say that he doesn't like where it's heading... And isn't that just fucked up?

Forcing a smile, Sam tries to put some distance between them. His efforts are thwarted by Dean tightening his grip, using more force than necessary.

"Where ya' goin', Sammy?" Dean questions, his voice sickly sweet, with an edge of promise to cause pain if the retort is less than acceptable.

Clearing his throat, and trying to act normal, Sam points out that he's never been in here before, and that he's sorry for imposing.

"Oh, you're not imposing. Did you ever think that if I didn't want you in here with me, your ass would be chained up downstairs by now?"

Sam couldn't conjure up anything to say to that. Instead, he relaxes into the oddly comforting hold, allowing Dean's fingers to comb through his hair. His hair that has now actually been washed properly for the first time in weeks.

After Dean offered for him to share his bed with him for the night, Sam was treated to a warm shower. Dean washed his hair, complementing on the volume and its natural smell. At the time, Sam had seriously wanted to mention that it was Dean's fault that it got so disgusting in the first place. Luckily, he thought better of it. Dean's drowned him before, and that was not a pleasant experience in the least.

“Do you like the bed, Sammy?”

“Yeah. It’s really nice. Thank you.”

Dean kisses the top of Sam’s head. He spends the next few minutes explaining what they are going to do for the day, since Sam had been upset the day before. Dean wanted to _cheer_ him up—make him feel special in some way.

If he really wanted to do any of that, he could let Sam go. Yeah, that must be what Sam wants the most. What’s better than freedom? And especially freedom from this psycho.

As Sam listens to the plan, he’s surprised to hear that Dean is going to take him out somewhere. The idea of being outside hits Sam with a sense of euphoria—to see the trees again! Not to mention people. There’s noway he will be able to escape Dean while he’s out. Sam’s smart enough to know that if he tries anything, something like this may never happen for him again. He’ll spend the rest of his life in the torture room, taking beating after beating.

Sam’s come this far. He can’t go back to that. If it means having to show this sicko that he has some kind of loyalty toward him—respect, even, then it will just have to be what it is.

That voice inside his head tells him that the way he feels isn’t an act. Sam mentally screams at the voice to go away. He knows how he feels. How he feels—he wants this man’s blood, and that’s that.

_Stop lying to yourself. It’ll make it much easier for you. Just accept the fact that you kind of liked it when he ripped that man’s heart out—_

_“Shut up!”_

Sam’s eyes widen, fear taking over in an instant. He never meant for that to be said outloud. Dean had been talking. This is bad. This is very bad. This could be the end of him—and just when he was starting to gather an understanding of how to behave in order to not receive lashes—

“Did you just tell me to shut up?” Dean utters in a warning tone, glaring icily.

Given the chance to plead his case, Sam jumps at the opportunity. For some reason, Dean must be showing patience with him. Why else would he have not punched Sam straight across the jaw right now?

Sometimes, the best way is the honest way.

“That wasn’t for you, I swear—I just hear these voices in my head from time to time… They were getting louder, and I forgot where I was for the moment—I’m really sorry, Dean.”

Dean accesses the look in Sam’s eyes. It’s all for show. He knows exactly what’s going on in Sam’s head, and he’s enjoying the ride. Each day, Sam will draw closer to the madness. In time, he will be all the way there.

“It’s okay, Sammy. Interrupt me again, and we’ll have a problem,” Dean assures, willing himself not to grin.

 


	11. Touche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sitting and talking on a hillside turns out to be good for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapters! They just work for what I'm planning right now... Oh, and I'd just like to take a moment to thank everyone who has left a comment, or given me kudos--or bookmarked this work. :D

After Sam's fumble earlier--accidentally voicing his thoughts, Dean cleaned and freshened up the both of them before heading out. As Dean said, Sam would be able to go outside today. First, he had to jump in the boot with his hands bound. Sam went along with it. Thankfully with no complaints.

Dean could see the relief on Sam's face when he opened up the trunk. Provided that documenting day to day life with pictures was something that Dean was in to, that would have been a moment to remember. Sam had just looked so happy to see his face, which had been a nice extra for the day.

Currently, Dean and Sam are relaxing on a hillside, staring out at the beautiful view. Dean doesn't really care for it. He can tell that Sam does, though, and this will just speed up the process of making Sam somewhat willing to spend the rest of his life with him.

"Isn't it beautiful, Sammy?"

"Yeah, Dean. It is."

Putting on a content expression, Dean places an arm around Sam's shoulders and pulls him against his side. "One day, Sammy, we'll have a house with a view just like this one. Maybe even better."

Sam hides a frown. Why does that make him hopeful? It should piss him off that Dean has the nerve to say such a thing. But the thought of having a place with this man is producing a pit of ecstatic butterflies in his stomach. When did life become so confusing? A few weeks ago, there was only one thought on his mind. And that was to kill the very man he's beginning to feel extremely close to.

Sam can feel himself slipping. It's getting worse every day. He used to dream of escaping--perhaps setting the whole place on fire, with Dean in it on his way out. Now, he dreams of the times when Dean is sweet to him. These dreams are recent. A couple of days old. But the fact remains the same. Things are taking a turn. His thoughts are scattering. Nothing is clear anymore. The worst thing is that Sam barely knows who he is as a person anymore.

Two nights ago, he killed someone for the first time in cold blood. Beforehand, when he still believed that the man that he killed deserved to die, he could have perhaps justified it to himself in some way.

Nothing justifies killing another human being. We were not put on this earth to savagely attack each other. Dean Winchester defies that logic. In every sense. Ever moral. Dean defies them all. With ease. And acceptance. Something that Sam will never be able to comprehend. That, he hopes won't change.

If he loses his will to pass judgement on the man that took away everything from him, what will be left of his soul?

Dean snaps his fingers in front of Sam's eyes, instantly returning his attention and focus. "You spaced for a bit there, Sammy. Something on your mind?" Dean's words screamed sincere. Maybe... Just maybe... They are.

"Why haven't you killed me?"

There it is. The question that Dean's been asking himself for a long time now. He can't tell Sam the truth, that he doesn't want to kill him. That will give Sam some fight. Dean can't have that. Not when he's this close to his goal. What can he say, though? Very few times in his life has Dean felt this lost for words. Damn. This man is causing more problems by the day. It would be a lot easier for Dean if he didn't have to answer these questions. Perhaps he shouldn't have asked what was on Sam's mind in the first place? Dean growls internally. He's starting to get sick and tired of this whole pretending he gives a shit, comforting lover crap-fest.

Finally, Dean tells a reasonable lie without possibility for repercussions or damage control.

"You haven't given me a reason to. Awesome job on that one. You've achieved the highest score."

Previously, he hadn't planned on being snarky. Halfway through the lie, he thought it a way to lighten the mood.

“What was the highest score?”

Dean snorts. “Not even close.”

Truth be told, it’s been a long time since Dean has done something like this. Not the going outside part. He does that on a daily basis to scout for possible survelance on the police’s end. Can’t have them interrupting, or getting close to Sam. That would ruin everything.

Regardless of his intelligence, this situation is new to Dean. He’s had hostiges before. But they were only to use for an escape when a hotshot detective scored their lucky break. Dean knew that if he had leverage, he would make it out of there in one piece, and disappear once again—become a ghost to all kinds of law enforcers.

The whole time, Dean never panicked. His confidence only grew afterwards. From that point on, he was sure that he could make it out of any corners he may find himself in.

Out of nowhere, Sam asks something that Dean had no expectation of. “You said that you killed your Dad. Why?”

“Do you really want to know, or are you just bored?” Dean replies, sounding uninterested.

“It’s been on my mind for a while now.”

Dean sighs. “He was bossy. I didn’t like it. End of story.”

“Surely there has to be more to it than that,” Sam counters, looking Dean straight in the eye.

“You ever heard the tale of the curious cat?” Dean proposes sarcastically.

“You ever heard the tale of the mad man that got what was coming to him?”

Dean grins. “Touche,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “That’s not something that you need to know. Plus, you’re a detective. Figure it out. I shouldn’t have to spell things out for you, Sammy.” Part of what Dean’s saying is true. Sam is a detective. He’s dealt with people like Dean before. Nevertheless, Dean appears to have a barrier that goes beyond the norm. No amount of asking him about his past is going to break it down.

Suddenly, Dean stands, brushing down his clothes. “You have fun with that. Let me know what you find, baby,” he challenges, gripping Sam’s shoulder with more force than necessary—prying the man to his feet.

“In the meantime, we’re heading back. There are some things that I want to try. If you behave, I’ll let you sleep in the bed again, and maybe let you have a warm shower—sound good?”

Sam can’t help but smile. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll be good.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

The glee in Dean’s eyes is unpalpable. “Good boy.”

 


	12. Watersports

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean introduces Sam to watersports, at a previous price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just need to point out that due to having written this on my phone, I have a lack of tools, so italics will look something like this, '.....'. Also, new found respect for people who do this on a regular basis! The last chapter was light--I like to use light and shade--so this is a dark one, with that lovely selection of mixed signals. Thanks for all the support, guys!!

He is in so much pain. It's agonizing. Just as soon as his head is lifted, there's only a second to inhale before he's once again thrust head first into cold bath water. He's not even thrashing around anymore, choosing instead to just take the punishment, take the harsh words being spat at him from above. The words hurt almost as much as the copious amounts of water entering his lungs at an extreme rate.

"You think because I let you share my bed, that suddenly gives you the right to waltz around my place as if you own it?" Dean snarls, his voice distorted by the volume of the water encompassing Sam's ears, interrupting the flow of the soundwaves path to his senses--the tone no less makes Sam feel sick to his stomach.

Dean continues to berate the younger man, as Sam thinks back to half an hour ago. It's not as though Sam had felt comfortable enough to do as he pleased--not in the slightest. He just had a thought. Earlier that day, he really enjoyed his time at the hillside with Dean. For once since he was kidnapped, he hadn't felt scared for his life, not even when Dean bound his hands together and loaded him into the trunk. Actually, Dean had been somewhat gentle with his actions--a far cry from the way Dean's throwing him around like a puppet now, how he dragged Sam up the stairs by his ankles, used Sam's own body to break through the bathroom door, held his hair in a vice-like grip as he ran the water, then forced him down with almost inhuman strength when the water was high enough--all the while securing an expression of extreme betrayal and unrelenting anger. 

Sam's never been in a relationship before. He's never had the time. Most of his life was spent focusing on finding the man who killed his mother. So, when it came to thinking of a way to thank Dean for the day out, he decided to cook something for the man. Cliche, yes. Odd, considering the circumstances, absolutely. Nevertheless, Sam thought it a way to show his gratitude. Any normal person would have spent the small time alone looking for an escape route. Sam hadn't even tried. Before Dean left to grab some supplies, Sam heard the amount of locks on the door. Sam has experience pick-locking, and the thought crossed his mind. 

Now, he kind of wishes he did give it a go. 

Halfway through preparations for dinner, Dean had returned. When he saw Sam in the kitchen, frying up some food, that admittedly smelled really good, Dean's face dropped. 

Sam never even saw the punch coming. 

"Cooking dinner? What the hell were you thinking? One trip out, and suddenly we're happy-fucking-family's? What do you think this is, Sammy?" Dean growls, pulling Sam's head above the water, watching with elation as Sam spits out the liquid in his throat, his body quaking from the cold. Dean lowers his voice to a cruel whisper. "Maybe you're delusional. Is that it, Sammy? Do you remember how we met differently? Was there a bar involved, our eyes meeting across the crowded room--a smile, a grin, an exchange of words that led to a night of passionate, mind blowing sex? Two weeks later, I'm out grabbing supplies, and you're cooking me dinner?" Dean gives Sam time to let all of that sink in, observing how his posture changes from confused, to angry, then undeniable depression. The psycho loves every part of it. Sam's breaking. It's happening sooner than Dean thought. Soon, Dean could have Sam place a bag of explosives in his old workplace, and the younger man won't even bat an eye. 

That's the dream. 

Sam feels completely foolish. There's no need for Dean to say these things. Even he tried to explain that he was trying to say thank you for the day out, Dean had just gotten angrier with him. Does Dean have something against dinner? Or is it something to do with Dean having a problem with people in his place? 

Pain explodes at the back of Sam's head, caused by Dean throwing him backwards, with little to no regard for his safety or well-being. What else is new?

A booted-foot presses into his stomach, bringing up the rest of the water, coupled with a small amount of blood. Sam stops himself from spitting it on the floor, having learnt his lesson for not showing restraint. Seeing his efforts, Dean almost rewards him by hauling him over to the toilet by his hair, telling him to spit it out, slightly caressing his back, moving in extremely lethargic circles, the motion soothing the younger man somewhat. 

"That's it, Sammy. Let it all out," Dean soothes, rolling his eyes. He has to do something nice, otherwise the leash he has on the detective will lessen with time. If he's being honest with himself, he's not that pissed that Sam was cooking dinner. It's more to do with Sam's sudden comfort--how he has no problem meandering around Dean's house, using his food, etc. Then again, that's not completely the reason he reacted this way...

Previously, when he left the house to get some 'supplies', he was really fishing for someone to cause extreme amounts of pain to. Pretending that he gives a shit has an impact on Dean Winchester. The 'nicer' he is, the stronger the urge to maim and slaughter becomes. Each time he offers affection, says something endearing--his hunger grows. And after their day at the hillside, Dean was feeling starved. It's been two, maybe three days since he watched Sam kill that low-life. As satisfying as it had been to watch his muse stab the man to death, and have sex over his lifeless form, Dean hadn't gotten to make the kill. That troubled him. 

Therefore, when he left the house, he sought out a target. He found her a few roads down, where a discreet alley-way exists. It didn't take long for him to charm her towards his destination. Normally, he would kill two birds with one stone, but he has Sammy for that part of his hunger, so as soon as they were far enough away, he wrapped his hands around her throat, crushing the life out of her. 

It had felt fantastic, however not nearly enough to satiate him. 

That's why, when he returned home, Sam moving around his kitchen as if they lived together, had been the perfect excuse for him to marginally please the demon within his heart. 

Right now, it's pleased. 

Unfortunately for Sam, he looked so breathtaking with that expression of inevitable death, that now Dean needs to satisfy himself another way. 

"You wanna make it up to me, Sammy?" Dean purrs, still brushing over that same spot.

Sam pulls his head back from the toilet, spitting the last remaining element in his mouth into the colored water. He manages to turn himself, leaning against the seat as he asks with his eyes how he can move away from the staggering pain. 

Dean smirks, helping Sam up. He removes Sam's clothes in a flurry of movements, drinking in the sight, mesmerized temporarily by the scar on Sam's abdomen--his name on Sam's flawless skin. As Sam stands there naked, visibly shivering, Dean empties the contents of the bath, before re-filling it with lukewarm water. Dean's feeling positively carnivorous with the idea of introducing his charge to watersports. The knowledge of Sam having been a virgin previously, Dean has no doubt that Sam's never fooled around in the water. That's about to change. 

When the water is deemed fit to serve, Dean deposits his clothes on the floor, the cool air making his skin tingle. He steps into the bath, influencing Sam to do the same. The detective follows willingly, holding himself up the best he can. Sam wills himself not to tense up when he's turned and forced onto all fours, momentarily grateful for the accommodation of the bathtub. 

His head dips in the water, small droplets falling off his chin as he rises above, concentrating his focus on the space of white in front of him. He hears the water splash behind him, registering that Dean is now settled in the water. Rough, damp hands travel the expanse of his back, blunt nails scraping delicately along the slow arch. It sets his skin on fire and elevates the hair follicles beneath his flesh. 

"Yeah, baby. Relax, this is gonna feel good," Dean rumbles, the promising texture of his voice pleasing the younger man's libido in ways he can't begin to imagine. Those hands remain, massaging thoughtfully, while Dean's apparent need inflates to its entirety, the bulbous head nudging against Sam's hole in question. Sam's prepared for this. He's gotten used to the feeling, to the expansion of his sphincter as Dean pushes deeper inside him. 

Dean shifts his hips, penetrating the younger man, savoring the enticing heat swallowing his length, with the added sensations of the warm water. 

He grins when Sam moans at the initial breech. Dean secures his hands around Sam's hips, starting a back and forth motion, allowing Sam a chance to really feel the difference of the water--how the weight of it builds the pressure, the expectation, and the stimulus of the act. 

"Can you feel that, Sammy?"

Sam breathes a husky yes, rocking back as Dean thrusts forward. Dean's purposefully aiming for his prostate this time, dragging out the contact--Sam deserves something for not fighting him on this at all. Besides, he does get some pleasure from watching Sam writhe. 

The water continuously splashes around them, sloshing and rippling from the force of Dean's thrusts, propelling Sam slightly forward. Dean's bottom lip gets trapped between his teeth, the pressure building in his loins. He's close. That's because he's so unbelievably turned on right now, the earlier images of Sam's head thrashing around in the water replaying like a short film in his mind. 

The younger man's head shoots back, a throaty moan leaving him. Dean growls animalistically, bending forward to add some color to the delicious bite mark on Sam's right shoulder, shortly admiring the healing flesh from where Dean ripped part of Sam's skin off on their first day together. 

"Fuck--Dean! Unh!" Sam gasps, wondering when this all started to feel so normal. 

Leading up to the penultamate thrust, Dean grips Sam's hair, and pushes him beneath the water, Dean's eyes rolling back in relief as Sam thrashes, recreating the perfect image from before. 

"So fucking perfect, Sammy!" Dean hollers, driving forward one more time before coming inside the younger man, gathering enough sense to resurface Sam's head in the midst of his euphoria. 

Sam coughs, rattling his head and wheezing. Dean pats him on the back, angling his thrusts to stimulate Sam's prostate rigorously, waiting for the telltale groan from Sam that he's released into the water. He listens as Sam pants, both from fear and exertion. 

"Good boy. Good boy, that was fantastic," Dean praises, pulling Sam back against his chest and stroking his abdomen. "Not that I doubt your cooking methods, but I'll order something for us to eat, all right?" he says soothingly, kissing the top of Sam's head. This is how he will keep Sam on the end of his hook. 

"O-Okay, Dean--"

"Shush. Rest your voice, Sammy. Nod if you want pizza," Dean encourages, grinning when Sam gives the nod for pizza. No matter what Sam chose, it was going to be pizza in the end. 


	13. The One That Got Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean tells Sam about the one that got away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for how long this has taken. I've been working a lot. And then I got ill, then it was Christmas--you get the picture. I've discovered that I can't write long chapters for this story, and that is purely because I CAN'T. I just don't think they're supposed to be. I mean, if I was getting really in depth about Dean's psychological makeup, it would require a lot of explanation. But this is more about Dean and Sam's relationship, the crookedness of their kidnapper/kindapee dynamic. You guys keep saying how disappointed you are that the chapter isn't longer, though, so I thought that I would just point that out! 
> 
> THANK YOU FOR ALL OF YOUR SUPPORT--I REALLY APPRECIATE IT. 
> 
> ENJOY~~

Sam’s guard remains up as they eat away at their pizza. Since he got here, he’s never eaten at the dinner table. Sometimes, Dean would come down to the torture room and eat in front of him, which had been _hell_ for the younger man. They haven’t talked much since the _watersports,_ as Dean labelled it, though that’s not unusual, either. In fact, Dean doesn’t often say much at all, unless he’s teasing Sam, or hurting Sam, or laughing at Sam for groaning in pain. Silence in its purist form can be very uncomforting. Yet, this feels right.

Not for the first time, Sam regards Dean’s disgusting eating habits—throwing it all in there, chewing with his mouth wide-open without a care in the world, or napkin on standby to wipe away the mess. They couldn’t be more different. Sam’s a very tactful eater. He takes just the right amount into his mouth, and he chews until its ready to fall down his throat.

Something is happening to Sam. Recently, he’s had less thoughts of escape, and even less thoughts of killing the man currently chowing down on Pizza across from him. When he does have those types of thoughts, they are usually met with a puzzled expression, or a sadness buried deep underneath the animosity. It’s all very confusing for the detective. Before being held captive by the very man that he loathed, images of ending Dean’s wretched life would bring a smile to his face. Odd, yes. But somehow not. True, that Sam would lose his position as a detective if he pulled the trigger without probable cause, and possibly end up in jail for the action—if he’s being honest here, there’s no way that they would be able to hold Dean Winchester. Sam has always known that Dean is much smarter than most people give him credit for, more cunning than anyone that Sam has ever encountered in his life—he would break out, and it wouldn’t take the man a lot of time to do it, so ending him on the spot would be the only option.

“What’s with you?” Dean asks around a mouthful of food, looking bored and detached.

Sam quirks an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest and tucking into the chair that slight bit more. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Sammy. Lesson one,” Dean replies, rolling a piece of pizza into a cone shape. “You’re pissed about me lashing out at you for making dinner, admit it.”

“I’m not pissed. It’s your house. I shouldn’t have—“

“Okay, okay. You want the truth?” the older man cuts him off, depositing his pizza-cone in the box. When Sam nods, clearly unsure of what else to do, Dean carries on. “Yeah, I was miffed that you were moving around my kitchen as if it were yours. That’s not the reason I attacked you, though... Are you addicted to anything, Sam?”

Addicted? The only thing Sam could honestly say he was hooked on is the sleeping pills that he had been prescribed to help with his insomnia. Two weeks have passed since he had one, but he doesn’t need them anymore. He’s in contact with the person that had been keeping him up all those nights, so their stamp on his life is now mute. Could Dean Winchester actually be addicted to some type of drug? No, that wouldn’t make sense. Sam works his brain to its maximum ability. He’s a detective. Years ago, he earned that position—this he can figure out. It won’t tell him the whole story behind this psychopath, but he could at least prove that he’s not some desk job nobody.

“So, this about your addiction to killing people?” Sam tries, willing himself not to look hopeful. He can’t have Dean getting the wrong idea about this.

To his surprise, Dean grins. “Yes it is, Sammy. Yes it is.”

Sam is going to kick himself for this later. “So why haven’t you then?”

“Oh, I did earlier. Some whore who wanted my dick—strangled her. Not nearly enough for me, though, Sammy. I’ve been killing for a _long_ time. One measly strangle doesn’t come close to satisfying me,” Dean recalls, his tone suggesting he’s discussing everyday life. Sam feels slightly sick to his stomach, but passes that confliction.

“Then what would?”

Dean smirks evilly. “I heard you talking to yourself sometimes. You were talking about all the files that you have on me. Did you read the one about the _one that got away?_ ”

Sam repeats the last part aloud, pondering the implications. Surely, at the time, if he had got hold of something like that, Sam would have used every source at his disposal to track down the man. If there had been a chance that he had information on the whereabouts, or the true identity of Dean, the detective would have been a fool not to give it a shot. Nothing like that ever crossed his desk, though, so Sam’s short for something to say. He could lie—pretend that he does know what Dean’s talking about, and possibly gain something from it. However, Dean’s very intelligent. If he figures out that Sam’s leading him on, the consequences could be dyer.

Choosing to remain on Dean’s good side for now, Sam shakes his head. “If it had made it to the police, it could have been before I made it to a position of high authority,” Sam suggests, shrugging his shoulders.

“Probably. I was fourteen when it happened, so you were most likely a snot-nosed brat,” Dean replies, questioning his actions here. He knows what he wants to get out of this, but he doesn’t understand why he’s going to reveal to Sam his greatest embarrassment. Yes, it had been when he was starting out—figuring out what works best, how to come across as someone willing to help, etc. Nevertheless, it hadn’t been his first kill, and his methods had worked fine before. _Somehow,_ that asshole managed to escape.

“So, what happened?”

Finished with his pizza, Dean closes the box. He throws it into the bin, creating more space on the table. “I’m just gonna say this right from the start. You’re not going to learn anything about me, my childhood, or the reasons why I kill from this one story. If I thought for a second that you would, there’s no way that I would tell you,” Dean starts, keeping contact with Sam. The younger man groans internally, however nods his head in understanding, confused by his own sudden excitement for this story.

“My experimental phase lasted a long time. I wasn’t sure what I liked the most. Was is girls? Younger? Older? Middle-aged? Mothers? Or boys? Old people in general? Animals? You see where I’m going. Everything was an option for me. To be honest, it doesn’t make a difference. But I didn’t know that back then. I thought that I must have a type. Every serial killer has a type, so logic dictated that I must have one as well, right? Anyway, for a few weeks, I had been taking advantage of poor kids, deliberately playing with these _awesome_ toys, that I could care less about, right in front of them. Naturally, it didn’t take long before their curiosities got the best of them. His name was Daniel. I let him play with the toy, used a cliché line, like I have more awesome toys at my house, wanna see? He totally bought it. They all did. When we got there, I left him to play with the toys, while I set up some things. Unfortunately, the little asshole got too big for his boots, and followed me. He saw the equipment, put two and two together, then left—“

“And you just let him go?” Sam mutters, instantly regretting interrupting the older man.

Dean smirks. “I didn’t let him go. My biggest mistake was not realizing that he actually lived a lot closer than I thought. It didn’t take me a long time to _pack up shop,_ as it were, and get the hell out of dodge. I usually research my marks. But I was still young then—had a lot to learn.” Sam’s never seen such regret on Dean’s face, almost as if it doesn’t belong there. He’s not sure what to make of it all. Does this mean that Dean has feelings? Or is this some sort of trick? Not that it matters. Sam knows that he’s going to end up doing whatever it is that Dean wants him to do, even if it is without his will, because Sam’s learned that it’s a lot easier to just go along with what Dean says. Besides, it’s not always bad.

“So, finding him would satisfy you?”

A sick laugh rumbles from Dean’s throat. “In more ways than you can imagine, kid.”

* * *

 

Daniel Cooper lives his life in his parent’s fortune. When they lost their lives in a tragic accident several years ago, everything had been left to Daniel in the will. Daniel had been reluctant to accept it all at first, not sure how he would be able to handle such a large amount of money. He knew from experience that his parents didn’t go parading their money around for all to see. Now, things could be different. Daniel had a family on the way during the time of their death, and he could use the money to give them a rich and fulfilling life.

Today, Daniel lives with his wife, and his two children, Joey and Ethan. They live in a secluded neighbourhood, on the land that his great Grandfather owned all those years ago—that had been left to his father, and then past down to him in the will. They’re all happy here. The sight is beautiful, and they have everything that they could ever need here.

A few months ago, his wife suggested to him about moving. She wants to move somewhere with lots of people, a small home, and less open space. Daniel can’t understand that for the life of him. Why would she want to be around people all the time? Daniel doesn’t have anything against _neighbours,_ but he definitely doesn’t want to be around one of those neighbourhoods where they all turn up at your door with cake, and sugar, and gossip about the other neighbours, which he can say with certainty that he will have no time for.

No, he would much rather stay here. He’s happy here. The kids are happy here. It’s just her that’s having a problem. Maybe it’s because she didn’t come from a rich upbringing. She spent her life working, doing chores around the house to earn money—they couldn’t be more different from each other. Daniel didn’t get everything that he wanted when he was a kid, but he had methods of getting his way, like every child.

The problem is that women can be very persuasive when they want to be. If Daniel’s not careful, he might find himself succumbing to her charms, and they’ll be jetting off to a different location by the end of the week. His wife has already been dropping hints here and there. Some of them aren’t even subtle.

For some reason, she doesn’t understand Daniel’s connection to this place. Plus, their kids have friends here. Shouldn’t that matter for something? He certainly thinks it should. If they were to move, then the kids would become a handful for them—no longer spending time out of the house with their friends, and giving the two grown-ups some much needed privacy.

Daniel sighs. It’s as if she wants them to spend all of their time with the kids.

“Danny, are you coming in for dinner?” his wife shouts from the front door, piercing the man’s innermost thoughts.

“Okay, honey, I’ll be there in a minute,” Daniel calls back, psyching himself up for his wife’s cooking. His eyes narrow when he senses something in the distance, relaxing when he deems it to be nothing.

Standing from the bench, Daniel brushes off his trousers, glancing over his shoulder to see if his wife is still standing outside. She’s not. Maybe he could just have another five minutes to himself? Deciding against that, Daniel prepares to walk back to the house. What he hadn’t been expecting, is for his entire world to shift on its axis, and for his body to fall limp against the floor—two shadows hanging over him.

“Hey, Danny. Remember me?”

* * *

 

Not for the first time, Sam wonders how on earth Dean gets away with all of this. If anyone had chosen to walk outside right now, they would see an unconscious man being brought into a house for all to see. He also wonders why the hell he’s not making a run for it, while Dean’s back is turned, and he’s otherwise occupied at the moment. Really, he needs to stop making these excuses for himself.

“Feel free to make a run for it, Sammy, but you’ll soon find out that the consequences are dyer,” Dean mumbles, hauling Daniel down the stairs. He can’t quite contain his excitement. Finally, after all of these years, he has the one that got away in his possession. It took a long time, but it’s worth it to see some results.

Since Dean was sixteen, he’s been putting together evidence to track down Daniel Cooper. With the connections that Daniel possessed, it made his job very difficult. Nevertheless, Dean Winchester has never been one to back down from a challenge. About a week ago today, something pertaining Daniel’s location was posted on a cooking blog. Dean had printed the page, and vowed to make his move as soon as he had some time to himself.

He would have gone ahead with his plan earlier, if he didn’t have a Sammy to take care of, and play with. Yes, Sam has been a distraction from his goal, not that the younger man needs to know that.

Sam chooses to ignore Dean’s challenge. He completely believes that he will be spread all over America if he makes a break for it. There’s no need for Dean to even mention it. From what Sam has seen so far, he would have no reason to think that Dean would hold anything back.

Down in the torture room, Dean deposits Daniel onto the floor, grinning as he does so—partially due to the release in weight. Sam stares down at the unconscious man, wondering what sort of plans Dean might have for him. Shouldn’t the detective do something here? Shouldn’t he help Daniel, or at least be thinking of a cunning plan to get them both out of here? Well, he’s not. This is crazy. When did he start thinking about how interesting it might be to watch what Dean’s going to do?

_I’m losing my mind here._

Sam observes as Dean sets Daniel up on the very chair that Sam found himself tied to the first night that he was here, how Dean tightens the binds to skin-pinching level. Sam remembers how that felt. It had been awful. Each movement causes the rope to rub against his skin, and he recalls the way Dean would smirk in satisfaction every time he squirmed.

Before Sam has the time to react, he’s grappled and forced over to the pole sticking out of the wall. He doesn’t make a move to say anything, seeing no reason to. Instead, he struggles slightly, as Dean situates him against the pole, securing him in place with a practised ease.

“Perfect,” Dean says aloud, pleased with the results.

“What’s going on?” Sam inquires, biting his lip as the rope brushes against an already particularly painful burn.

“You’ll find out soon enough, baby boy,” Dean promises, grinning in triumph. “Oh, this is going to be so much fun.”

 

 

 

 

 


	14. That First Cut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean leaves Sam and Daniel to fight for their lives.

For all that Sam has discovered about Dean Winchester while he has been here against his will—yes, he’s going to maintain that one to save some part of his already depleting sanity—he has to admit that he did not see this one coming. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to him that Dean would take satisfaction in tying him to the nearest surface. In this case, he thought that it would be a little different. What a mistake that was. Now Dean has two toys to play with, and Sam has absolutely no idea what the mad man plans to do with them.

Daniel hasn’t woken from the chemicals surging around his body yet. Sam’s not sure how long he’s been stood here, trying fruitlessly to release himself from his binds. After Dean revealed that Sam would find out soon enough, he left the room with a shit-eating grin on his face. Just once, Sam would like to be inside the man’s head, so he could gather some evidence of what might be happening next. It’s frustrating to think that he could be metaphorically walking into the Lion’s den, with no preparation whatsoever. For all Sam knows, Dean plans to leave them down here for the rest of their lives. Or, he plans to set the house on fire, causing their inevitable deaths.

What the hell could Dean be planning for them? He had Sam come with him to kidnap this guy—Sam has now officially aided a criminal, and a mass-murderer at that, in getting exactly what he wants. Once they had him, Dean decided to turn on Sam, tying him to a disgusting, rusty pole sticking out of the wall. If Sam wanted to, he could find away to penetrate Dean’s skull with it, and leave this place after all.

Sam sighs aloud, staring down at the ground beneath him. He wonders for a brief moment just how much blood has been shed upon this particular floor. With the lack of knowledge that he has of that gruesome thought, he has to guess that there’s quite a lot of gallons soaked into the floor. Sam shivers from the thought, a feeling of violation washing over him, due to knowing that some of _his_ blood is on that floor, not to mention the guy that he brutally murdered.

_That’s something I’m never going to be able to come to terms with._

“Where the fuck am I?!”

Sam glances over at the panicked man on the chair, eyes skittering around the room looking for an escape, hands flexing against his binds. The detective witnesses the single fraction of a moment where everything sinks in, and Daniel realizes that he could possibly be in immense danger.

For the most part, Sam’s unsure if he should say anything to the man. Should he just keep to himself, and wait for Dean to show up again? Would trying to talk some sense into this guy actually benefit him in some way? The worst thing that can happen if Sam’s not too careful, is that Daniel tries to bargain with Dean by telling him Sam’s _not yet_ thought of plan to escape. Sam’s aware that if Daniel takes that approach, it will mean less than nothing to Dean, and he’ll end up getting himself killed one way or another.

Sam curses when his and Daniel’s eyes meet across the room. Daniel is quick to shoot questions Sam’s way about where the hell they are, who Sam is, what he’s doing here, and this, that, and the next thing. Quickly tiring of Daniel’s babbling, Sam snaps at him to keep his voice down.

“Keep my voice down? One minute ago, I was in my backyard about to go in and have dinner with my family, and now I’m in this strange room, tied to a fucking chair! And _you_ want me to keep _my_ voice down? Why aren’t you just as panicked as I am? Are you part of this? Is this just some ploy to keep me—“

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up,” Sam demands tightly, angry that he can’t rub his temples to soothe the oncoming headache. “I’m just as confused as you are, but I don’t think panicking and drawing attention to yourself is going to help you at all here,” he suggests, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. What’s so special about this guy? So he got away all those years ago, he’s not going to be able to put up an ounce of a fight, and Sam knows all too well that Dean likes a good fight.

“Then what do you propose that I do?”

“Keep your fucking mouth shut, your head down, and don’t make a scene,” Sam reiterates, narrowing his eyes at Daniel. Why is this guy’s face pissing him off so much?

“Um, okay. But, why are you so calm?” Daniel asks, curious as to why this man can be so casual in this sort of situation.

Sam almost growls. “I’m a detective.”

Two pairs of eyes move to the door as it opens, Dean’s figure appearing at the top of the stairs, shit-eating grin still in place from earlier. Sam ignores the way it makes him shudder in delight, choosing instead to glare at the psycho for leaving him down here with this whimpering idiot.

“It’s nice to see that you two are getting along,” Dean murmurs, as if he’s an overworked parent coming in from a rough day of work, only to discover that his two boys aren’t fighting for once.

Every creak of the stairs sends a tremble down Daniels’s spine, a memory playing through his head from when he had been much younger. He recognizes this man. At the moment, he’s having trouble putting his finger on it, but it can’t be something good. This guy looks balls to the wall insane, and now he’s convinced that he is in true danger.

“Look, whoever you are—I have a lot of money—I can set you up for life, just please don’t do what you’re planning to do to me! I have a family! I—“

“I have money. I don’t need yours. If I wanted your money, we’d be in a totally different place right now,” Dean responds, ascending the last step, admiring the view before him. He couldn’t have done a better job if he tried. This is perfect. This is going to work, and he’s finally going to get some results.

“Then what the hell is this—“

“Keep up the attitude, see what happens,” Sam cuts in, clenching his fists. Dean doesn’t miss the reaction. His grin widens to impossible levels. Seems the hours that he left them both down here had some affect after all.

Dean strides to the other side of the room, opening a door that Sam’s never noticed before. He doesn’t have the time to wonder what’s in there, before Dean’s taking out grotesque looking weapons, which provoke Sam to ponder whether or not Dean gets all his _collectables_ from a medieval black market.

“Oh, this one’s good,” Dean mutters to himself, placing a mace on the table beside him, setting up a nice display for his two captives. The psycho does not stop until the whole table is full with weapons, stepping back for just a moment to drink in the sight. There is no doubt in his mind that this is going to work. This is going to be the way forward. If everything goes according to plan, he’ll be _much_ closer to achieving his goals.

Feeling Sam’s currently ever-present glare at the back of his head, Dean rounds on him with a smirk. “Don’t worry, baby boy. Everything is going to be all right.”

“Baby boy? What the hell—“

Sam cuts him off with a very curt _shut up,_ and Daniel freezes in place, eyes daring to dart to Dean’s maniacal expression. Daniel can’t help but think that these two must know each other in some way. _Baby boy_ appears unobjectionable to the mad man’s methods, although he clearly dislikes the position that he’s currently in. At least they have that in common.

Grinning, Dean ruffles Sam’s hair, and then starts to circle the two of them, detailing what’s going to happen next. “Okay, fellas. Here’s what’s going to happen.  Only _one_ of you is going to be leaving here today. Before I leave this room, I’m going to hand you both a pocketknife, and you’re going to release yourselves,” Dean pauses just behind Daniel, placing his hands on the man’s shoulders, riveted by the awfully apparent tension building there. He starts massaging the kinks, relishing how it visibly angers the detective.

Dean cracks his neck, the action causing a full-body shudder from Daniel. “When I leave, I’ll lock the door behind me. When one is dead, and the other is still very much breathing, that one can knock on the door. I’ll come in, check that the job has been done, and then the victor can leave, no questions asked,” Dean explains wickedly, aiming a wink of deceit in Sam’s direction. The younger man narrows his eyes, desperate to figure out Dean’s whole plan here.

Daniel gulps. “So, it’s a fight to the death?”

With one last pat to Daniel’s shoulders, Dean moves to the stairs. “That’s exactly what it is. Have fun, you two,” he adds for effect, throwing a couple of pocket knives their ways. Sam catches his with a practiced ease, while Daniel’s ends up in his lap.

The last they hear of Dean is the mad man howling with laughter, until the door finally closes behind him, the sound of the lock setting into place deafening.

Sam flips the pocket knife open in his awkward position, angling the blade at the centre of his binds, preparing a stroke, when Daniel requests his name. Sam tells him, rolling his eyes at how needy and pathetic Daniel sounds at the moment. The other man doesn’t stop there, accusing Sam of knowing more than he’s letting on. There’s no time for this. Not that Sam doesn’t have the upmost confidence that he could waste this guy in a matter of moments—staying in this room with him is a worse enough torture for the ex-detective.

He really has no idea what Dean’s playing at. Pinning them against each other? His current muse, and some guy that he failed to kill all those years ago? Sam would think that Dean would want to do the killing all on his own. After all, he’s been tracking Daniel down for years now from the sound of things. So, why, when he has what he’s wanted after all of this time, would he leave Daniel to Sam?

What is Dean’s role in all of this? There has to be some ulterior motive. Dean had specifically said that he needed something big to satiate his growing appetite, and that that hooker hadn’t been enough for him, which is what led Sam to accompanying Dean in tracking _this_ pile of shit down. Could this be some sort of sign? Could Sam be missing something crucial here? He doesn’t know. Dean’s an excellent liar, and an even greater manipulator.

_For all I know, I’m the experiment..._

“Are you listening to me, _baby boy—“_

“Call me that again, I fucking _dare_ you,” Sam snaps back, slicing his binds clean off. It’s not long before he has the circulation back in his wrists, that he’s choosing something from the table of torture weapons.

_Wait... What the hell am I doing? This is what Dean wants. He wants me to kill this guy! It’s not a fair match. I’ve had years of training—this is just some rich guy that got lucky all of those years ago._

Sam turns, weapon in hand, and Daniel flinches.

“Oh, God, please don’t do it! There must be some other way that we can get out of here! Please, I have a wife, and children—I don’t deserve to die—“

“Would you shut up?” Sam says tightly, digging his knuckles into his right temple. This guy is insufferable. Clearly, he has no pride whatsoever. He thinks that he can get out of this by begging for his life? Does he not remember his first encounter with Dean? Sam’s not one hundred percent sure how it all happened, but surely Daniel established to himself that Dean’s not the type of person to just let _things_ go.

“This isn’t ideal, I get it,” Sam grumbles, taking a few steps closer to Daniel.

“No! Stay away from me—“

“Stop being a coward. Dean doesn’t like people like that. He wants to see a proper fight. He wants to be impressed by what you can do,” Sam explains, tired of this man’s whining. To be honest, he’s not completely positive that Dean wants to be entertained with this fight, more than he wants to watch Sam kill Daniel. For all Sam knows, Dean doesn’t even have cameras in this room.

Daniel stills in place. “How do you know all this?”

“Because I’ve been here a while now,” the detective replies, regarding the swing.

“Then you must know a way out of here?”

“You really don’t understand the position you’re in. This man is insane, but he’s also extraordinarily clever, not to mention animalistic. A few years ago, he took down a whole police squadron on his own—no help whatsoever. Just his brain, and his skills to make it to the other side,” Sam informs Daniel, getting his point across. “So, if you think that you have a chance of taking him down, you’re sorely mistaken. You haven’t even gotten out of your binds yet.”

“It’s kind of hard to reach the pocketknife when my hands are bound to the fucking chair!” Daniel snaps, narrowing his eyes at Sam. The detective sighs, quickly removing Daniel’s binds for him.

“There—now we’re on even ground,” Sam says, stepping back to avoid Daniel lashing out blindly, and only hurting himself.

“Now that we’re both free,” Daniel begins, rubbing his wrists. “Why don’t we figure out a way to turn the tables?”

“How do you propose we do that?”

“We could pretend that we’re done, and then when he comes in to inspect us, we can jump him—“

“You get that I just told you he took down a whole squadron on his own? He’s not stupid,” Sam butts in, frustrated that Daniel’s thinking so lightly of Dean Winchester. There’s not a chance in hell that a plan that obvious would ever work.

“Then what do we do?”

Sam sighs. “Give him what he wants. No matter what happens, only _one_ of us is going to make it out of here. It’s going to either be myself, or you. He’ll accept nothing less, so let’s just make it a fair fight—“

“But I’ve never had a fight in my entire life!” Daniel bellows.

“Well, use your survival instincts. I don’t know. Do you expect me to go easy on you? It’s my life on the line here, too—“

“Ha-ha! Do you have a wife and kids—“

“No.”

“Then who do you think has more to live for?” Daniel sneers, standing from his chair in a huff, realizing for the first time just how tall, not to mention well-built his _opponent_ is.

Thinking on his feet, Daniel starts talking about his life, his family, etc—something to distract Sam, while he picks out a weapon of his own. He doesn’t understand why Sam’s not threatened at all. It’s as if he has all the confidence in the world that he’s going to win this. That kind of confidence is frightening. If Daniel’s lucky, Sam won’t be able to ignore his dedication to the law, which instils that he could never take the life of an innocent human being, regardless of the circumstances.

Then again, Sam has been here _a while—_ for all Daniel knows, all of that has been taken away from him already. Sam seems pretty comfortable with that weapon in his hand, like he’s already preparing to strike with it, merely giving Daniel a chance to possess one of his own. At least Sam is a decent enough guy to give him a running start. Nevertheless, Sam seems to have all the intelligence on this mad man, and he knows what he’s doing.

The only way that Daniel is going to get out of here, and back to his family, is to somehow kill Sam before Sam kills him. If ever those trips to the gym are going to pay off, now would be a good time.

Supplied with a weapon, Daniel rounds on his opponent, prepared to fight for his own life in this situation. He’s tried negotiating. Sam’s not going for that, so this is the only other option that the two of them are left with—Daniel has to win this one.

To Daniel’s surprise, Sam’s halfway through disrobing. He’s down to his jeans, carefully taking them off, and setting them on the side, folded neatly, as not to cause creases, while far enough away that no bloodshed will reach them.

“What are you doing?” Daniel asks, thoroughly confused by the spectacle.

“These aren’t mine,” Sam mumbles unhelpfully, repositioning his weapon in his hand, his expression unreadable.

“Whose are they?”

“Dean’s,” Sam answers with a half shrug, starting a slow walk towards Daniel.

The other man holds his weapon close to his chest. This is it. Only one of them is going to make it out of here. There is no other alternative. It’s kill or be killed.

* * *

 

“Arrrrgghhhh!” Daniel wails in pain, gripping his heavily bleeding shoulder.

Sam’s officially lost it. That first stab... It had been magical—Sam could have killed this guy with the first blow, but he never realized how fun it was to cut into warm flesh, and then witness the reaction that follows. The deep fear in their eyes; the disgust; the life in front of him flashing before their eyes—memories deluding them that they might make it out of this alive.

He can’t stop—he doesn’t want to stop.

Sam slams into Daniel’s face, sending him crashing to the floor. He lowers himself, straddling the other man’s waist, knife pointed directly at Daniel’s chest. Sam punctures the skin, slowly and efficiently, dragging the knife through the skin in a jagged motion, watching as each tear of blood seeps over the laid out crevices, falling in lines down the pale skin, and creating a puddle all around them.

He can’t say anything. Words are lost to him. All he can do is stare in fascination, as he continues on his trek towards the torso.

Just as Sam’s about to apply more pressure, he looks up in time to see Dean unleashing an all mighty swing of the mace, cracking Daniel’s head open, and finally halting the cries that seem to have been going on endlessly.

Sam must have been _so_ gone, that he hadn’t even noticed Dean coming into the room—momentarily causing him to rethink the camera situation in this place.

Dean stares at him, a gleam of pride in his eyes. He gently reaches out, taking the knife away from Sam, and slings it to the side.

“I’m so proud of you, Sammy,” Dean admits, wrenching Sam against his chest, and crushing their lips together in a bruising, blood-thirsty kiss, that sends Sam’s mind into a different kind of haze.

He barely hears himself whispering, “Fuck me.”

 


	15. You're Mine, Sammy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a really short one because that's how it works. The next chapter will be much longer, as there's quite a lot to do for it.

It worked just as he expected. Dean knew--he just knew that there was something darker lingering inside of Sam. All he had to do was find the perfect way to tear it out of him. Originally,  Dean only wanted to keep Sam as a toy, something to use whenever he got bored. That had been working for a while. Then, Sam started to grow on Dean, in more ways than the psycho could even begin to understand. As it all is right now, Dean can't imagine his life without Sam. 

Previously, Dean had no problem existing all on his own. He had no desire for the normal human interactions. The only thing that he liked about other humans, was that he could slice and dice them. Also, sex. He really likes sex. 

Sex with Sam is far greater than anything that he has ever experienced in his entire life. Sam's so generous, and willing to do whatever Dean wants. 

Once again, Dean finds himself lying in bed, with Sam in his arms. Sam's sleeping peacefully, clearly exhausted from the nights activities. If Dean actually gave a shit about other people, he would feel bad for having fucked Sam so hard and fast for hours on end, into a comatose state--he hadn't been able to help himself, though. Watching how Sam carved the one the that got away, got Dean all hot and bothered, not to mention horny as fucking hell. Dean just could not have watched for a second longer.  He wanted to be inside Sam. That had been the only thing going through his mind in that moment. Dean didn't even have his moment of satisfaction at finally ending the life of Daniel, after all of those years of searching. Being inside Sam had been more important to him. 

Could it be possible that Sam has become more of an addiction to him than killing itself? The evidence would suggest that that's most likely the case here. Dean's not sure that he wants to accept that truth. He can't be having someone on his mind all of the time. There are other things that he has to focus on. Besides, Sam's not nearly ready to submit to him fully yet. No, it's going to take more than one premediated kill to make Sam his forever. 

And when did that become the plan? Dean doesn't remember thinking of a future where Sam joins him when he has the urge to kill someone. Yet, there it is in the back of his mind. The vision of Sam laughing with him as they torture some poor, unfortunate soul, has him hard on the spot. 

Dean reaches his hand down to Sam's ass, circling the rim with his finger to check that it's still loose from last night's activities. Dean slips a finger in easily, satisfied that no preparation is needed. Which is good because Dean feels about ready to explode from the thoughts that he's having, and he wants to finish inside Sam. 

Positioning his cock at Sam's hole, Dean slides in easily, sighing as the heat encases his length. He laughs when a small puff of air releases from Sam's lips. There's no indication that Sam's awake, but that's not going to stop Dean. 

Dean nudges Sam's shoulder, pushing him on to his stomach. Dean fists the sheets either side of Sam, rocking into the younger man over and over again, relishing the slip and slide in and out of his charge. There's no one better than Sam. There's no one better than Sam for Dean, and vice - versa. Who else is going to look after Sam? Who else is going to make him strong, and give him a wonderful life? Who is going to show him that the desires that he has are perfectly natural, and that he shouldn't be ashamed of himself?

"You're mine, Sammy," Dean breathes, thrusting into the pliant body beneath him, the slap of his hips against Sam's ass, music to his ears.

 


	16. All the Time in the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been two months since Sam fought for his life against Daniel. Things have changed--whether or not that's for the better, he has no idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG!! DX I KNOW I'M AWFUL, BUT I GOT WORRIED THAT I WOULD NEVER BE ABLE TO FINISH. SO I FORCED MYSELF TO WRITE A WHOLE STORY IN 20 DAYS, AND I FINISHED IT!!! JUST TO GET ME USED TO FINISHING THINGS.
> 
> THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE!! 
> 
> IF YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS, PLEASE ASK. 
> 
> Thanks!
> 
> Onwards~!~!~!~!~!~

Sam has no idea what this feeling is, but it’s _there—_ imprinted, urging him to think about the types of thoughts that should be kept under lock and key at all costs. How did he get here? How does someone go from declaring that they will protect the citizens of the United States of America, to slicing up their skin because he _wants_ to? His life officially no longer makes any sense to him, and he can’t even bring up a valid defence to that. This is the first time in his life when he has felt like he has some form of control over it. Sam may be a puppet on a string for the master of manipulation—the one and only Dean Winchester, but it’s almost as if Dean is pushing him towards his true calling. Dean’s opening his eyes to the truth, tearing back the curtains that have blinded him all these years.

Music is pumping through his body, awakening the hairs on his flesh. It’s all around him, ensnaring him in a base-y trap, coercing his vessel into moving along to the beat. His target is at the bar. Dean deemed him ready for this. He can do it. This is simple, Dean told him. Use charm; laugh at their piss poor stories—get out. Why is he so excited for this? The stuff that he has been doing over the past two months could never be scrubbed clean from his skin, no matter how many scalding hot showers he puts himself through. Dean has taken him under his wing—he encouraged Sam to imagine a world where they work as a team; where they pick out their prey for the night, and then play with it. _Play with it for as long as they want._

_I wonder if he’s a screamer?_

Sam shakes his head so hard he’s surprised his brain doesn’t slide out of his right ear. No—patience is the way forward. If he gets distracted, this could all go south. Dean is here in case he messes up, but the psycho said that he just wants to observe tonight—that he shouldn’t have to step in; that Sam should know what he’s doing by now; that he’s seen Dean do it enough to be confident in his movements. But he can’t help it. He’s fidgeting because this is the first time that he has been out on the prowl with Dean.

The training took place back at the house. Dean would bring unfortunate souls back and fill Sam in on exactly how he got them to come here. Next, Dean would detail how to find the spots on their body’s that will leave them screaming the loudest. Weaponry followed after that, choosing the best tool for the victim, and how to get inside their heads. Sam found that he’s actually really good at that. He would have his turn after Dean, and then once the body died, they would have sex on top of it. Dean really likes to use the blood leaking on the floor as lube, shoving it up inside Sam—later shooting a big load of come up his ass, mixing it with the blood layering Sam’s walls.

He doesn’t know how many people he’s tortured. All he knows is that it’s finally his turn to pick one out for the night. Sam noticed the dude checking him out a few times. Back at the house, Dean dressed him up—telling him that looking his best makes their job easier. When Dean finished clothing him, Sam had to change outfits because the nutter got turned on, fucking Sam up against the wall, making him watch in the mirror. Sam had moaned so loud as Dean’s blunt nails pierced the flesh at the top of his shoulders, wolfish teeth sinking into his skin.

Sam feels a giddy bubble in his chest. He knows this is wrong. He shouldn’t want this as much as he does—he shouldn’t be hard in his jeans... But he is. He is, and there is nothing that he has ever wanted this bad in his life. Dean has warped him into the perfect little soldier. Right now, Sam’s not sure that there will ever be a chance for him to go back to the way that he once was. Even if he’s rescued, he has no idea if he can deal with settling back in to his ordinary life. His ordinary life doesn’t have screamers or beggers or bargainers or biters, and it especially doesn’t have Dean, who looks unbelievably hot when he’s hammering nails into someone’s hand to bind them to the wooden post, their eyes so full of disgust that they could both swim in it.

Shaking it out, Sam relaxes himself. It’s time for him to start. Dean’s watching him. He’s expecting him to do good, so he has to do good. He can’t do bad. Bad is bad. And bad means no food. Food is good. So he does good, food is food and bad is bad—and what. Sam breathes in deep. He needs to focus—but food is blood; no food is good. Blood is victory.

_Lessons. Remember the lessons. Don’t think too hard. You can lose it when the guy is back at the house._

Blood. Their blood. All over the place. On the floor—cleaning the next day. Having sex on top of the body—Sam palms his jeans. He wants Dean to be inside him right now, but he has to get through this first. Yesterday Sam didn’t get to do anything because Dean said he would lack the motivation to bring someone back today,--that he needs to be insatiable in the moment, so that the only thing he can concentrate on during the exchange is getting his rocks off.

_Spilling his blood. Mmm..._

Shifting his way through the crowd, Sam saddles up next to his target, slipping onto the stool and putting his hand up for a drink order. Sam knows that _Target_ is looking at him. Brown eyes so full of life. _Not for long._ Dean’s voice in his head makes him shiver in delight. Whether or not Dean approves of his choice is another matter entirely. For now, he just has to get to the part where they knock him out.

Holding back a grin at the thought of Brown Eyes’s limp head, Sam glances back at him, making a gesture of the service in this place and what are they gonna do? Brown Eyes asks him if he’s from around here. He tells him that he is, actually, and he has beer back at his, but he’s kind of hoping for some company tonight— _always make sure you make yourself look available; show that you’re not married; show that you have what they’re looking for; show that you can listen to their crap._ Sam thinks he’s doing well. Brown Eyes tells him that he would love a beer. That definitely means that he wants to get out of here. Containing his building excitement, Sam waves his hand at the bartender, letting him know that he’s heading off, watching the bob of Brown Eyes’s throat as he gulps down the rest of his drink. Blood. He’s gonna be gulping blood down later. Only way that he’s gonna stop himself from dying.

Sam’s pretending to find whatever the prey is saying funny, throwing his head back to make him feel good about himself. Hey, he’s about to lose the light in his eyes—might as well give him a good last few moments to make it semi worth his while.  As they walk out of the doors of the club, entering the night air, Sam feels Dean’s presence behind him, minty breath puffing against his nape. It’s more ragged than he remembers it, like it’s being forced out in a rush—like maybe he’s angry or something? Sam shrugs it off, casually throwing his arm across Brown Eyes’s shoulders, biting back a grin of satisfaction when he buries his hand in one of Sam’s back pockets.

Just as they’re approaching the meet up point, Sam is thrown against the wall, demanding lips pressing against his own. It’s Dean. Melting into the kiss, Sam senses the look of purely demonic promises in Dean’s eyes, rugged hand gripping the shirt of Brown Eyes’s unconscious form, scorching tongue penetrating Sam’s mouth deeper and deeper. He wants to ask what has the psycho so upset all of a sudden. While this is a common occurrence during their play time, Dean’s not usually this... feisty before they even get started.

“My Sammy. You hear me, you son of a bitch? He’s my Sammy,” Dean growls into Sam’s mouth, and he has no idea what the hell that means, but he doesn’t have the ability to care right now. He just wants to get back to the house so that the fun can begin. Sam just nods his head, not really sure what else to do right now. He moves to grab a leg. Dean shoves his hand away, starting down the winding alley. During the training, Sam learned that Dean knows all the areas that are best for snatch and drags like these—they came to the club on foot, so that Sam would be shown the tour beforehand in the event that they get separated and he has to find the way back to the house all on his own, with the prey in tow of course.

Dean’s so pissed right now he can’t see straight. Who the hell does this mother-fucking twink think he is? Putting his hand in _his_ Sammy’s back pocket. Smiling at _his_ Sammy. Imagining doing things to _his_ Sammy. Dean saw the way that he looked at Sam. And he’s not going to fucking stand for it. He had planned to  just let Sam go to town on this guy when they got back—just let him go to his heart’s content. Not now. Not when Dean has the unquenchable desire to throw this asshole in an acid bath. Not when all Dean can think about is cutting off every inch of skin—letting the dick feel every agonizing movement. Sammy will have his fun. That’s still in the cards, but this just became more about a lesson for Sam—this is a lesson to anyone out there that dares to think about what _belongs_ to him.

It had been hard enough blending into the crowd, when all he wanted to do was rip his head off for flirting with Sam. That sort of thing has never been a problem for Dean before. He had nothing to be possessive or jealous about. But Sam is _his,_ dammit. And everyone needs to see that. Sammy is his toy. _His._ No one else’s. Dean contemplates popping the guy’s arm out of his socket so that he’ll have something to think about when he comes to. Wouldn’t doing it while he’s awake make it more appealing?

“What do you think, Sammy—break his arm now or when he wakes up?”

“When he wakes up.”

“Good answer, baby boy,” Dean mutters, delivering a hard slap to Sam’s ass. He has this overwhelming desire to claim Sam right now in front of God and anyone that might catch a glimpse. Stilling himself, Dean’s head reminds him that they can fuck on top of this assholes body later—maybe before he dies.

Maybe. Just maybe.

The excitement thriving off Sam’s body is making Dean harder than he was earlier. They really need to get back to the house as soon as possible. Not too far now, and they will get there, but watching those mounds of flesh mincing behind those tight-ass jeans that look so much better on the younger man is making it increasingly difficult for Dean to recall where he even lives at this moment in time.

After what feels like years, they make it back to the house, slipping in through the front, invisible to the other patrons of the street. They make quick work of hauling their catch down the stairs. Sam whispers filth into his ear about what he wants to try tonight, and Dean has to pause for a moment to let his cock adjust to the litany of promises unleashing a pulsing sensation that draws his teeth into his plump bottom lip. He snaps at Sam to focus, clipping him round the back of the head in warning for his insubordination. Dean reminds him that this is important—that he can’t get distracted during this part just in case they run into any mishaps.

“Do you want to get caught, Sammy?” Dean growls.

Sam’s head ducks, not daring for a second to show how much that hurt. “No, Dean. I’m sorry.”

Waving it off, Dean gripes at him not to do it again, and then sets their catch up on the chair. Sam’s catch. Asshole catch who thinks he’s good enough for his baby boy. Asshole catch who’s gonna get his foot up his ass the moment he looks at Sam with anything other than fear in his eyes.

_“Look, Sammy. I got us a present,” Dean muttered, throwing a scared looking young man on the floor, foot pressed into his neck._

_Sam glared. “Why?”_

_“You just looked so pretty cutting up Daniel, I thought that we’d have a blast doing the same to whatshisface,” Dean supplied like it was the most obvious thing in the world, adding weight to his foot._

_“And how am I supposed to do that?” Sam spat, sensing it soaking into his hair. He can’t remember the last time he sweated that much in one sitting—hanging from the ceiling was starting to become his least favourite thing about being here. The fact that he has a least favourite should terrify him, but it really doesn’t._

_Sam coughed, groaning in pain as Dean’s fist dug further into his stomach, displeased green eyes glaring down at him. “This is the thanks I get for taking your feelings into consideration? After I spent all of_ my _time last night cleaning up another one of your messes? And after I massaged your sore muscles?” Dean raged, slamming his fist into Sam’s stomach, glaring furiously when blood landed on his shoes._

A grin blooms on Sam’s face as he gets into place, cuffing himself to the radiator, sweeping his eyes over to Dean in search on an approving nod. He gets one, and he’s rewarded with a good boy. Sam smiles so wide his face hurts, signalling to Dean that he’s ready to get in to character. 

“Knock ‘em dead, Al Pacino,” Dean mutters, positioning himself at the top of the stairs. This is one of their favourite things to do. All killers love to re-enact their first time. Technically, Sam’s first was the random that he picked out off the street. Sam hadn’t been mindful of that kill. He hadn’t been able to experience it. No, his cherry popped when he cut into Daniel. Dean may have administered the final blow, but it had been Sam who toyed with the body for the pure satisfaction of feeling someone else’s blood on his hands. In that moment, he felt what he had been missing all of these years.

Dean’s not going to lie, he never expected this to happen. He just needed it this way so that he could keep Sam with him. Fortunately, Sam took to it like a moth to the flame. Yeah, he makes mistakes sometimes, and he tries to remind himself that killing people is wrong and all that shit. Dean soon shows him the way to embrace the dark again, when he’s balls deep in the younger man, while Sam draws patterns on the dead skin. Sure, it’s not as fun as when there’s a heart pumping blood around the body, but it gives Sam time to practise his signature. Which Dean is proud to say he has made tremendous progress on.

He grins when their prey opens his eyes—this is all about to begin.

Sam’s watching the dazed eyes coming into focus, taking in the surroundings, spotting the man that they met at the bar—where are they? How did this happen? Why is that dude cuffed to the heater? Wait, what was his name again? Okay, calm down. Panicking isn’t going to do anything here. Sam is impressed by that—this is the first guy that has figured out that no matter what they do, there’s no way out of this, but they have a better chance of figuring something out if they have a level head. Not that Sam is going to make a mistake here. He really would prefer not to be drowned tonight, thank you.

“This isn’t what I meant by I have beer at my house, by the way,” Sam laughs, trying to make light of the situation. He can see that Brown Eyes is nervous, but he gives way to a subtle grin that says he agrees.

_“Wanna see a neat trick, Sammy?” Dean asked, laying some slutty woman’s leg over his bent knee._

_Sam shrugged._

_“With this right here, I can sever the webbing in her feet. Even if she has the chance to get away, she’s not gonna get far because she won’t be able to walk,” Dean explained, gently pushing into the skin. Sam watched, mesmerized by the concentration on Dean’s face. It was over quickly, and Sam arched a brow as Dean instructed him to step away from the body._

_“Watch,” Dean demanded, throwing a bucket of water over the woman. She awoke immediately, shaking her head like a dog that just dived into the bath without consideration for the after effects. Sam observed as she pushed herself up onto her knees, surveying the room, instantly taking in the sight of the two men watching her with interest._

_“Wow,” Sam breathes as she goes to run, falling on her face. “Where did you learn that?”_

_“I fucked a Neuro-Surgeon for three months. She told me some stuff. Helped myself to books and shit then killed her once I had what I needed. It was really hard to be that patient,” Dean informed him, snickering as the woman smashed her head on the floor once again, crying out that this wasn’t happening to her._

“Do you know where we are?”

“No,” Sam lies, watching Brown Eyes’s Adams apple bob with hunger.

“Have you seen anyone?” he asks, taking a cursory inventory of the room.

“No. What do you remember?”

Brown Eyes shifts a shoulder, staring at the ground. “Leaving with you, and then nothing.”

Dean loves watching his boy do this. There’s something delicious about how the prey are so trusting towards the younger man, hanging on his every word. It won’t be too long now before he steps in. Dean remembers how nervous Sam had been the first time they did this—the first time that Sam willingly did this.

_“Just pretend that you don’t wanna know what’s underneath their skin. It’ll be fine, Sammy,” Dean assured him, growing tired of having to constantly repeat himself. He can’t always do everything on his own. Sam has to get with the fucking program already because Dean refused to hold his hand throughout their lives._

_“But what if they don’t believ—“_

_“Make them believe you,” Dean growled, tightening the binds to slicing levels._

Needless to say, Sam had been fucking incredible. He fell into the role with so much ease that Dean just knew that the guy wouldn’t have problems convincing a playboy to give it up. Dean’s a natural at it, too—even done that a few times just to see if he could. But Sam has this innocent look in his eyes that makes people trust him with their lives, which is the last thing that they should be doing, but that’s their problem.

It drives Dean crazy watching Sam like this—watching him pull off a performance that Robert Di Nero would be proud of. Their prey is slowly but surely losing all of his defences, sinking into the chair—body no longer tense. Dean takes that as his cue, unable to just be a bystander anymore. He creeps with the grace of a cat, leaning over the back of the chair until his face comes into contact with the prey, laughing as brown eyes widen in shock mixed with fear.

“Hi,” Dean says casually, like they’ve just met at some sort of interview for a position they’re fighting for. “You see that hot piece of ass on the other side of the room?” he points at Sam with his head, hard green still locked with skittish brown.  “That belongs to me. Not you. Not any fucker on this God forsaken Earth. Me. D’ya understand that?” Dean bellows the last part, spitting in the guy’s face. Unable to help himself, spurred on by the spectacle of this assholes hand in Sam’s pocket, Dean crashes his forehead against Prey’s, side-stepping out of the way as the chair falls back. Dean momentarily glimpses at Sam, thrilled that there is nothing but heat in those beautiful hazel eyes.

“I’m sorry—am I talking to myself here?” Dean rages, picking the piece of shit back up, stabilizing him. He immediately turns him so he’s facing him, not wanting it to look at Sam for a second longer.

Prey is crying. What a shame. What a disappointment. He glares at Sam across the room, promising punishment for picking something so weak and pathetic. Maybe it has something to do with the way that Dean is behaving. Like fuck he’s going to admit to something like that. What good will that do him? And if he is jealous—which he isn’t—Sam’s his, and people like this son of a bitch are going to see that—what the hell are they gonna do about it? Dean is the one with the power. Dean is the one that could end them both in a heartbeat if he wanted to. Sure, losing Sam would be a huge loss. He’d have him stuffed. Or maybe he’d hang him like a crucifix on the wall. Whenever he kills someone, he’ll layer their blood on Sam’s vessel. Yeah—that actually sounds like a good idea. Maybe—nah. He’s having too much fun with Sam. It’s true that no one wants to be alone. Even for him. With Sam, he can do what he wants, and Sam even joins in.

“Talk, _bitch._ ”

“Um—I’m sorry... I—I—I didn’t kn-know that—“ Dean’s fist connects with his cheek— _hard,_ making his head spin. “He’s yours. He’s yours. Oh my God, he’s yours. Plea—URRRGGHGHGHHH—“ he wails, gasping for breath as his arm lays slack by his side. Dean laughs along with Sam, instructing him to unlock himself with a flicker of his eyes.

“I wish I could have seen it,” Sam says with regret, rubbing the soreness in his wrists. Dean growls huskily, dipping Sam as he kisses him hungrily, eyes watching their prey’s reaction. This is what he gets to do. Only him. Because Sam is _his._ As they both get to their feet again, stood side by side, Sam suggests that they do the same to the other one, all the while grinning at the look of betrayal in Brown Eyes’s mocha orbs.

_“I trusted you—you said that—“_

_“And you would have done the same if you were like me,” Sam bit back with a smirk, easing the knife just above Gingers jugular. “Can I put it in yet, Dean?”_

_“Not yet, baby boy. Make him feel it first.”_

They all say the same thing. That they thought Sam was in this with them. That he was just as scared as they were, just hiding it well. That they can’t believe that he’s this type of person. That they wish that they never talked to him. Ha-ha. Fat chance a wish like that is going to help them in any way at all. Sam gets bored of it eventually. Or Dean does. Mostly Dean. Dean gets more impatient than anything, and then he kills them before they can have any more fun. Then sex on the body. Sam likes the sex on the body. Never to the body. They never fuck their _food_. Just on it. Dean fucks Sam exclusively. Why does he like that so much? Why does it make him tingle all over? Why does it make him wish that Dean would never pull out of him, and that Bobby never finds him?

_Bobby..._

Sam focuses his attention back to the task, wondering when he lost the front half of his clothes, and when Dean’s hands started caressing his skin.

“See this? That’s _my_ name. Not yours. Not Phil’s. Not Greg’s. Not Captain Jack’s. It’s my name. Because Sammy is mine. You get that yet? You brought this on yourself because you touched my property—you may have guessed that I don’t take kindly to that,” Dean monologues, digging his nails into the scarred skin, making it bleed a small amount. Sam moans at the sensation, howling a laugh when Dean boots Brown Eyes’s chin. “Never look at him. You don’t deserve his beauty,” Dean growls, one hand burrowing into the back of Sam’s jeans, cupping a firm butt-cheek.

“What are you going to do to me?” Prey asks.

They stare at each other unblinking for several beats of time, and then they break out in to raucous laughter, throwing their arms around shoulders, holding heads in their hands, heads tipped back, body’s shaking with the force of their amusement. They laugh until their stomachs hurt. And then they’re on each other. Dean presses Sam up against the wall, shoving his legs apart, biting into one of the many marks on his neck. He’s just about to fuck Sam through the layers of brick, when he suddenly remembers that they have company—company that asked a stupid question.

“Stupid boy. What you should ask is— _what aren’t we gonna do to you._ ”

Sam answers for him, “Only thing we won’t do is make you feel _good_. That’s what _you’re_ for,” he mutters, grinning along with the mad man that turned him into this  monster.

 _He’s standing over dead body number seven, red stains all over him. Like sand on the beach. Blood gets_ everywhere. _And it’s so warm when it first kisses his skin, accepting him as its new supply. Dean’s urine is mixing in with the scarlet liquid, cleansing him of his impurities, marking him as Dean’s. Dean’s one and only. Sam’s one and only. They belong together..._

_Dean sighed as he relieved himself, aiming some at Sam’s open mouth. “You like my piss, baby?”_

_Sam made an approving sound with his throat, widening his tongue to create a dip for it. He’s so high right now. High on the rush of it all. The humiliation, the tendrils of hair still curled around his soiled fingers. Everything—Dean’s voice encouraging him the whole way, coaxing him to swallow the urine—to not spit it back out even though it tasted disgusting. This was to cleanse him. This was to purify him, so that he can do this all over again._

_“That warm, Sammy?”_

_Sam nodded, evening out his breaths, willing himself to remain a prisoner of this particular high for the rest of his life. With Dean, he can reach this._

_With Dean, he was pure._

Putting on his best puppy dog eyes, Sam palms Dean’s rock hard cock through the layers. “Can I start now?”

Dean smiles at him, evil glint in his eye. “Of course, baby. You have as much as fun as you want, but don’t forget to save me some.”

Nodding vigorously, Sam ambles over to the closet, cocking his head as he chooses his tool for tonight.

So many options.

All the time in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twist  
> Twister  
> Twisty  
> Twisty vines  
> TWIST WITH ME! 
> 
> Yeah, I'm crazy, I know.


	17. Change Is Inevitable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's changing, and no amount of denying this is going to make a difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. I suck so much at updating this. But here's an update, so that's a good thing, right? Anyway, this is a short one. One's that revolve around Dean are going to be most of the time because Sam's shift in psyche is more the focus of this, so yeah... 
> 
> Next chapter will be longer, and something something is coming ahead. ;D 
> 
> ONWARDS~!~!~!~

Sam moans in desperation, riding Dean hard. Dean  smears more of Brown Eyes’s blood across his chest, fucking up into him as he makes Sam taste it on his tongue. Sam sucks eager fingers into his mouth, pushing himself up and down on Dean’s pulsing member, dragging over his prostate in the best way possible. He feels so unbelievably alive right now. They played for hours until they just couldn’t keep their hands off each other anymore, and Dean sliced clean across dead guy’s throat, shoving Sam down to his knees, forcing him to stay in place as globs of crimson tears splattered all over him; mixing with the sweat in his hair; painting the naked skin of his chest; dotting the cheeks on his face, almost resembling red freckles. Sam loves it. He wants more of it. Dean gathers another dose, thrusting his fingers into Sam’s mouth, calling him his little Vampire, telling him how good he has been today, and how proud he is.

Sam’s head spins as he’s rolled over, no longer riding Dean—no longer having sex on top of the body. Dean’s hands wrap around his throat, squeezing him hard. Sam can feel the oxygen leaving his brain, can start to feel the intense pressure of _everything,_ the sounds of their skin colliding louder than it was before, Dean’s cock slamming into his prostate almost making him see stars. Everything is elevated. Dean is grinning down at him, rotating his thumbs as he bears down on Sam’s throat, fucking into him with abandon, pressing him closer to the floor, bending Sam as far as he will go at this point.

This is incredible. The line between life and death. Dean is showing him this, very vividly, taking him to the edge and back. It’s not like drowning. He still doesn’t like drowning. Drowning is a punishment—this is just pure bliss. Every part of Dean is making his body sing with delight, accepting everything, and expecting nothing in return. Pleasure at this level is a lot to take on all at once. Especially when someone is new to this step. Dean has never done this to Sam before. Not that Sam ever knew that it was a possibility in their future. Until this very moment in time, he hadn’t even been aware that he would be so turned on by something like this.

Dean is killing him, essentially. Yet, all he can do is roll his eyes back in to his head and bask in the sensations flowing through his body—the suffocation of his brain removing the ability to think about anything, to only _feel_ the pleasures rippling through him, leading him closer and closer to his orgasm, to release him from this isolated flow. That Sam and Dean are _one_ in this moment. They are together. They are in control of each other. They are the only thing that can lead them to the next stage. No one outside of this room matters to them in this moment. The only thing that holds a semblance of importance is the look that crosses between them—the one that says that they did this. They did all of this together, and they are going to do it again.

All over again.

A weak guttural sound breaks through the almost unseen space between Dean’s powerful hands that weigh Sam’s life in the balance, and the skin on his neck, near enough entirely ensconced by Dean’s grip. The sound goes straight to Dean’s cock, pounding in and out of the younger man, watching as that flicker of light starts to leave those ever-changing eyes that Dean wishes will never decide which colour to remain—their beauty really holds no bounds to him.  The both of them are so close to the finish line. One more push and they will fall over that cliff together, on a downward spiral towards the raging current that will send them crashing into the depths of their own climatic end.

Dean smirks at Sam, ordering him to come, watching with unrelenting fascination as Sam complies with him, hot strips spilling onto Sam’s stomach, colour-drained face pulsing along with his member. Dean follows immediately after, pumping Sam full of his essence, loving the knowledge that come tomorrow, Sam will still be filled with him. Even if they aren’t connected, Sam will have a part of Dean deep inside him.

As they both come down from their highs, Dean releases his grip on Sam’s throat, laughing out loud as the younger man catches his breath. “So, how did you like auto erotic asphyxiation, Sammy boy?”

Sam mumbles something, sucking in large layers of breath, trying to regain some stability in his chest. “I, uh... Uh... Wow.”

“You look so hot when you’re on the edge of death.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam shifts his hips, sliding Dean deeper into his body. “I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment or not.”

Dean nips his nose. “It helps that you’re covered in whatshisfaces’s blood. Red’s a good colour on you.”

“Odd how you didn’t want him to touch me, but you’re fine with rubbing his blood into my skin.”

“He’s dead. What’s he gonna do?” Dean mutters with a shrug, narrowing his eyes at the mess on the floor. He growls and slams the younger man’s head against the hard concrete. “Are you expecting me to clean all this shit up? And I haven’t forgotten how much of a weak piece of shit your catch turned out to be. You’re gonna have to pay for that. I make it a guarantee that _dinner_ is lively—not a sobbing piece of meat, you got that?” Dean pulls out of Sam roughly, glad to see the regret in his eyes for having let him down. These are the things that Dean must do to keep the guy on a tight leash. It’s not like it bothers him. It doesn’t. Punishing Sam gives him more excitement than killing any of these no-lives. Doing this keeps Sam in line. Keeps him on his toes, and forces him to learn from his mistakes. Not to mention, it steals any chance that Sam might have to think about the person that he was before this, and thereby halting the opportunity for him to revert back to that disgusting shell of  a person.

Sam lowers his head in shame, biting his bottom lip. “Does that mean I don’t get food tonight, Dean?”

“If you earn it,” Dean corrects, narrowing his eyes. “I want this place spotless. Anything out of place, I’m gonna know about it.”

Dean retreats after that, heading up the stairs for a shower. Don’t get him wrong, he still wants Sam to have that fight in him that he had at the beginning. Fighting is something that Dean enjoys. He still remembers the first time that Sam gave him a chubby, with the way that he punched and kicked, giving his best attempt to knock Dean down, and failing. If he hadn’t suspected that there would be someone on the scene not long after their scuffle, he would have most likely started doing things to Sam’s body there and then. Nevertheless, Dean is not an idiot. He knows when he can and can’t do things.

That fire is there still. It haunts Dean’s dreams these days. Even after spending the whole of the day with his boy, he still manages to rest on Dean’s subconscious, taunting him with those smiles reserved only for the older man. When did he become so engrossed with the idea of spending the rest of his life with Sam? He doesn’t regret that it’s become a constant in his thoughts, but he can’t help pondering the implications of the whole ordeal. Dean has successfully turned Sam into a blood-thirsty killing machine, and he’s one hundred percent certain that nothing will break the bond that they have, even if Dean does still treat Sam like he’s a useless piece of shit some of the time to keep him in line. That’s just so that the younger man knows his place—knows where he stands on the food-chain.

Dean pauses at the top of the stairs, spying Sam’s near frantic efforts to get everything in order. Yeah, he’s trained the boy well. Sam’s just _so_ worried about being a disappointment, and _so_ utterly desperate for approval that it makes Dean’s job ultimately easier. Dean just has to say jump, and Sam will definitely ask where and when.  

Chuckling under his breath, Dean leaves Sam to do the cleaning. True, he would rather shower with Sam, but he’s also a bit of a neat freak, so all of that needs to be taken care of first. And seeing how Sam has taken to the task so thoroughly before, Dean can rest assured that he will do a good job, and earn his right to have dinner. Besides, Dean promised his favourite pizza if he managed to please him, so why wouldn’t he want to hit the ground running in this case?

There are so many things that he wants to do with Sam, and all the time in the world to do it. His patience has paid off exponentially. More so than he ever could have hoped for. If he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t mind _all_ that much being affectionate every once in a while. Sam brings that side out of him. The side that spoons Sam when they sleep, and has him playing with Sam’s hair for no damn reason other than to feel how soft it is after he’s dried it. Dean knows that Sam has never been with anyone other than him—if he had, Dean would have had to make a trip to find the punk-ass sons-of-bitches and mutilate them for getting to touch what’s his first—so he has no idea how Sam would have reacted in a relationship. Which is what they’re in. Except that it’s not that mushy bullshit that makes you want to throw up and never stop. Their relationship is very different. Sam knows his place. Sam knows that Dean will accept nothing but the answer yes to anything that he demands. Sam knows that if he does something wrong, then he will be punished for whatever it may be. And he also knows that he will receive praise for being a good boy.

Dean rolls his eyes—how did this even happen to him? He’s thinking about giving Sam a prostate massage once he’s finished cleaning up. Something that he will get _no_ pleasure out of, other than the clenching on his thick fingers, and the moans going straight to his cock—okay, so maybe he will get _something_ out of it, but that’s not really the point that he’s trying to make here. As much as he denies that he’s still completely the same person, that’s no longer the truth. He actually wants to tell Sam about his life. He wants to tell him his theories on why he might have turned out the way that he did. He wants to tell Sam where he’s stashed a shit ton of bodies when he went on a binge in Kentucky. In all his life, Dean has never felt the need to actually open up to someone. Not that he cares about how they would react to whatever it is that he disclosed to them, just never actually had a nagging feeling in his chest—or maybe it’s his heart--, prompting him to let someone in.

Growling out his frustrations, Dean slams his hand into the wall, skin breaking down to the bone. It doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts him because he doesn’t think about it. Pain doesn’t mean anything other than pleasure when he’s dishing it out. Dean’s not angry that he feels this way. The fact that he _feels_ anything for Sam actually gives him some kind of unnatural scientific curiosity. His anger is directed more towards this not being a part of his plan—this never filtered into his whole grand scheme of things. Somehow, it’s there. And it’s strong, and no amount of denying that it’s real is going to make a spot of difference where everything is concerned.

Deciding that he’ll deal with this all later, Dean retreats into the bathroom, powering up the shower as soon as he’s within reach. Right now, all he wants to do is get the blood off his skin.

Not that he has a problem with being covered in blood. None whatsoever. Nevertheless, he has plans for his boy tonight, and he wants to smell good for him. Sam’s mentioned before how he loves the smell of Dean’s natural scent, that it washes over him and makes the whole world spin the way it should. If Dean didn’t know that Sam is clearly hopelessly in love with him, he might find this whole situation distasteful. No matter what lies between now and the future, Dean will not break first and admit his feelings.

That is just _not_ going to happen.

Period.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for everyone that has read this, left a kudo or a bookmark, or even subscribed to the story. I can't tell you how amazing it feels to see that under the Bottom Sam tag, my story is on the first page, with the additive of most Hits. I'm slowly climbing up the ladder. >:3


	18. Belonging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's experiencing one of those rare days where Dean is nice to him. Something is said, and Sam gets to take a look into the past of Dean Winchester.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mention of passed child abuse, and sexual child abuse from a parent. Also, animal abuse. Just mentioned, really. But I felt like I need to warn for it just in case. 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy the chapter! Here, we get to see a different side to Dean, and some of the mystery as to why he might be the way that he is. 
> 
> Well, what are you waiting for, an invitation? 
> 
> Onwards~!~!~!~!~

Rare days like these are something that Sam treasures. He makes sure that he is nothing short of perfect the entire time, for he knows that if he does the _slightest_ thing wrong, Dean will turn on him in an instant. Which is why he expects it to happen at any moment, while also enjoying it all while it lasts. When he woke up this morning, Dean had been absentmindedly running his fingers through Sam’s hair, periodically massing his scalp. Hours before that, Dean had gently massaged Sam’s prostate, relieving a boat load of stress from him, and expected nothing in return, telling Sam that he needed to rest for now, that Dean may have taken him a bit too hard earlier, and that he was sorry for hurting him. Of course, Sam had felt confused at the time, but let it go in favour of the immense feeling of his orgasm rising with each carefully executed press of the tips of Dean’s fingers on his prostate. Needless to say, it had been miraculous. Quite clearly, Sam had the idea that that had just been the calm before the storm. For the generosity of Dean to continue well into the afternoon, and just scraping the edges of the evening, Sam couldn’t help feeling like he had falling down the rabbit hole.

Currently, Dean has Sam on a massage table—one that Sam’s certain that he’s never seen before, and the older man is working the kinks out of his body in the most tremendous way possible. He’s naked as the day he was born, hard as a rock, and yet he’s never felt more relaxed in his entire life time. Any second now, Sam expects Dean’s actions to turn rough, but he’ll bask in the sensations for the time being until the inevitability reaches him.

It’s Dean talking to him that finally pulls him from his revere, releasing a staggered moan as Dean unravels a particularly punishing knot in his right thigh. “I’ve never had someone on my table with is much tension in their body as you, Sam,” Dean mutters like an afterthought, moving on to the next area on the agenda.

Ignoring the pit of jealousy rising in him at the thought of Dean doing this for anyone else—being so sweet and caring for anyone else, Sam addresses the issue. “I had a tough job,” he replies, sighing out his stress as Dean kneads it all away, sagging back into the table like it’s a cloud floating in the sky, designed for nothing but therapy for the body.

“I can _feel_ that,” Dean responds, applying more pressure to his palms as he moves them across Sam’s taught flesh. “Bet it feels like it was all a waste of time now, uh?” That’s a test. A test that Dean needs to get a response from Sam for, but he doesn’t have to know that.

Sam rolls his head to the right, listening to the obscene popping of his neck muscles. Back then, he didn’t really have time to recognise that he might be damaging his health. All he was focused on was the job. The job that was to find the man that is currently making him feel like a balloon slowly losing all of its helium, just a fizzled out mess on the floor. His entire existence revolved around killing this man. The irony tastes bitter to him somewhere deep down, where the little boy inside of him screams that this is wrong—that they were never meant to turn out like this—that this man killed their Mom—that he deserves to pay for the things that he did to her. That’s all good and everything, but Sam can’t seem to bring himself to care anymore. Dean is messed up—Sam is perhaps just as messed up as him. Perhaps that chance encounter all those years ago had just been leading up to this. If Dean hadn’t killed his mother, then he never would have met the man. Also, he never would have worked so hard to pursue Dean Winchester, and he never would have been strong enough when they met for Dean to even take the slightest interest in him.

All in all, it feels like it was meant to be. Sure, that scares the shit out of him. And, honestly, he never saw himself participating in the lifestyle that Dean chooses to live, but he also can’t find it in himself to care about that either. He feels _elated_ when he gets to play with Dean’s toys. The praise he receives gives him a feeling of longing— _of home._ Maybe that makes him sick? Maybe that makes him the scum of the earth? Maybe that makes him a disgrace to the little boy that screams as loud as he can inside his head? Truth of the matter is, he just doesn’t care.

The realisation is both intoxicating and downright poisonous. Before, he could pretend that he was just losing his mind. That being around Dean made him this way—made him want to do things that just weren’t right. He could convince himself that he wasn’t in control of his actions. Right now, though, he knows _where_ he is. And where he _wants_ to be. He knows that he wants to be around Dean. He knows that he wants to be more than just another one of Dean’s _toys._ Considering that Dean hasn’t killed him yet, and has kept him to himself for all this time, he assumes that he might just mean a little more to the guy in that respect. Still, the way that Dean is loosening up his entire body, it calls to mind the fact that Dean may have done this before—may have kept someone just like Sam—may have treated them nice at times, and got them their favourite pizza if they did a good job—may have petted their hair and called them his baby—may have introduced them to all the torture methods, on and off the field—may have made them feel pleasure beyond the natural order of things.

Sam tramps down his anxiety. He just needs to live in the now. That will keep him safe from the hurt, from the what if’s of it all. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Sam moves to sit up. Before he can, Dean is pressing him back down against the table, ordering him to stay still. Sam does so with little to no effort whatsoever because he trusts this man with his life.

And the irony slips through the cracks, again.

“Yeah,” he finally answers, surprised by how true it is. “For the better part of my life, I was a man on a mission. Look where that got me.”

“Got you a whole lot of stress, is what it did,” Dean utters, fixing Sam’s left leg into an arch, shifting his attention to the calve muscles.

Dean fights back the menacing smirk that wants to take over his face. That is all the admission that he needs. Everything that he could have hoped for and more in that one word. It’s an affirmation, and it’s never going to change now that it has been said. Sam doesn’t want to go back there. That’s as plain as day now. Dean has him right where he wants him, and he’s never going to let him go. Even if those dicks try and take Sam away from him—scratch that: if they even _succeed_ in taking Sam away from him, the power that Dean has over the boy will have Sam stopping at nothing to get back to him. Dean is sold on that. He knows it to be true in every sense of the word.

There might come a day where he’ll have to administer one final test, but he’s not quite ready to execute that plan just yet. That’s going to take time; planning, and a whole lot of patience and restraint, on his part.

For now, he’s happy to proceed with the knowledge that Sam’s just as stuck in this as he is.

“Who do you think is looking for you?” That could come in handy later-on.

“If I had to guess, the whole department would have stopped after a few weeks of coming up empty. The only person that is stubborn and dumb enough to pursue this to the depths of the Earth is the head of forensics, Bobby Singer,” Sam says without any hesitation whatsoever, like he doesn’t give a shit what Dean might plan to do with that information.

“Do you think he’d manage?”

Sam shrugs one shoulder. “Can’t say for sure. He doesn’t like to leave a job unfinished, and he was kind of like a father to me back at the precinct,” he rambles, flushing when Dean gives him a withering look.

“Like a father, huh? Father’s are nothing but useless sons of bitches that use their position of power in the family to get what they want,” Dean growls, shoving away from the table, letting Sam’s leg drop to the light padding. He starts for the kitchen, bracing his hands on the side as the muscles in his neck twitch with rage. When Sam approaches him at the door, he rounds on him with a hateful look, eyes glazed over with something Sam can’t even begin to comprehend, but automatically knows that he wants it to go away—now.

Ignoring the fact that he’s naked, Sam takes a cautious step towards the older man, nearly holding his hands up in a placating gesture, but immediately thinking better of it.

“Stay the fuck _away_ from me!” Dean snaps, reaching for the nearest knife. His eyes are so haunted in this moment—Sam’s not even sure he’s in the same room—or the same planet.

Taking advantage of Dean’s angry and uncoordinated disposition, Sam quickly dislodges the knife from Dean’s grasp, wrapping his arms around the man, and sealing his mouth over Dean’s. The distraction seems to work, as Dean quickly turns them, lifting Sam up on the table. Sam instantly ensnares Dean with his legs, welcoming Dean between the space created by his lower half, while simultaneously inviting Dean’s tongue into his mouth, moaning as Dean takes full control of the kiss, pressing Sam back into the table, detaching their lips to leave harsh bites on Sam’s creamy clavicle.

“Get your pants off, Dean,” Sam snaps, too lost in the moment to realise that he just _ordered_ Dean to do something. Sam gets another aggressive bite for that that breaks the skin, but Dean quickly lowers his pants, not even bothering to kick them off as he positions his already hard as nails cock at Sam’s entrance. Sam always lubes himself up while Dean’s in the shower just in case, so he has no problem taking Dean into his body without any prep at all.

It’s over faster than Sam expected, Dean sagging against him as he layers kisses along Sam’s chest, eventually stopping at the tip of Sam’s chin. Sam’s sweating, but he feels incredible. That massage making this seem like a breeze compared to the _first_ time this happened.

Dean’s still firmly inside him, and he can feel his own essence sliding down the side of his body. Sam hadn’t been sure that that was going to work, but he knows now that he can use it in the future if that shit ever happens again. He can see in Dean’s mesmerising green portals that Dean just _knows_ that Sam wants to ask him what that was all about.

For some reason, Sam’s even more shocked when Dean gives him a genuine smile. This day is just all kinds of crazy. And living in his situation, that’s really saying something.

“Thanks, Sammy. I needed that,” Dean grumbles, moment forgotten, as he pushes away from Sam, leaning back against the counter. Then, another surprise of the day. “I’ll tell you. If you want?”

“Only if _you_ want to.”

Dean closes his eyes tight for a moment, then gestures for Sam to follow him. Sam does, albeit full of curiosity and doubt for what might come next. He’s led to their room, and Dean throws him on the bed without saying a word. As Dean gets out a book from a drawer that Sam’s never _dared_ to look in, Sam settles himself back against the headboard, shocked when Dean joins him on the other side, then growls at him to sit between his legs.

Sam does so without thinking about it at all, resting his head back against the solid, but cosy warmth of Dean’s chest.

“This is the story of a boy that became all sorts of messed up because of _one_ particular person,” Dean begins, opening up the book in front of Sam. He lets Sam take a hold of it, and then he positions his head as comfortably is he can, getting lost in his own thoughts, as Sam starts to read.

 

It’s Dean’s journal.

Holding his breath, the detective-gone-serial killer, opens the book and starts perusing the item in his hand like it holds the answers to _everything._

The pages don’t have dates on them. Almost like they aren’t important at all. It’s just filled with little or big scrawls of something that happened that day. Sam has no idea how old Dean is in this, but there’s no way that he’s an adult.

_Dear Journal: that sounds so fucking stupid. How the hell is this supposed to help me? By writing about how shit my life is? Why am I even writing right now? Screw this._

_Don’t know what I’m supposed to put. Whatever. Stuff happened. And it might happen again._

_Maybe writing to nothing will help the pain in my back go away? Yeah, didn’t think so._

_Why am I at this again? It’s not going to help me. It’s not going to do anything. I killed a cat today. I watched it drown as I held it under water. It felt good. Really good. It meowed pathetically until it couldn’t no more. Then I just let it sink to the bottom. It was fun._

_Another cat. This time I put it in the microwave. Took ages to clean all of the waste out of there, but it was fucking worth it just to see it explode._

_Dogs are bigger than cats. They’re harder to catch. I got it, though. And it felt good to carve out its insides._

_No one knows what I do. My friends think I’m awesome, and that my Dad is really cool. They’re full of shit._

_Do you know how much candle wax burns, Journal? I do. It stings like a motherfucker and it creates these big old blisters. I read that the scarring will go down at some point, but who the fuck knows?_

_I hate my Dad. So fucking much. Harry has a nice Dad. He made me lunch, and he said that the model-car that I built was really good. He said that I have a knack for that sort of thing, and that he would show me how to fix a real car. That’s what Dad’s are supposed to be like. Mine just likes to use me like a human punching bag. The second I get in, it’s his hands around my throat. His whiskey breath in my face. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother coming home at all._

_Journal, I know that there is something wrong with me. Killing animals is one thing... But I can’t stop thinking about what the blood under Tracey Jenkins’s skin looks like. So many times today in Math, I pictured what it would be like to slice the skin open, just to see it. Dad used the whip today. My back hurts like hell._

_I did it. It looked amazing. So red and vibrant. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. They don’t teach you how to get rid of a body. They don’t teach you how to wipe every trace of yourself from the scene, either. I think I did a pretty good job._

_Everyone is looking for Tracey. If they looked in the right place, they might find her, but I can’t point that out—how the hell would I know, right?_

_Things changed today, Journal. Instead of the usual abuse, my Dad made me suck his dick. His disgusting, hairy dick. It took everything that I had in me not to bite it off. If he does it again, that’s what I’m going to do. I swear._

_Some guy called me pretty today. I snuck out and used a fake ID to get into the bar. He tried to lure me into the toilet. When he touched my ass, I beat the shit out of him. I don’t know if he’s alive._

_Dad tried to get me to suck his dick again. He’s not a problem for me anymore. Finally got the courage to do what I’ve been dreaming of for so long now. Every beating was worth it to see the last look of fear in his eyes before he died. If I could, I would bring him back to life, and kill him all over again. I feel good, Journal. And they’re letting me stay in the house. They think he was murdered. No one ever expects the kid. Suckers._

_I lost my virginity today. Girl was a fucking slut. Kept begging me for more. At one point I got tired of it. Toys aren’t supposed to talk, anyway._

_Fucked another girl, buried her somewhere. I forgot where._

_Different bitch, same ditch._

_Surprise, surprise. Did it again._

_Journal, did you know that guys have the tightest asses? I found out today._

_I’m leaving. Sick of this town._

_Our first night in Ohio. I don’t know why I brought you with me. This will be the last time, Journal._

_I lied. Sue me. It’s not like you can stop me from writing in you. I’ve done a lot over the past few years. Killed a lot of people. I don’t have a type. I read that most serial killers do. I don’t. Anything with a pulse will do. I must admit that hot dudes and voluptuous babes do get most of my attention, though. Then again, I’m just killing two birds with one stone._

_Kentucky was a blast. Gonna miss this place._

_Been a while, Journal. Got too caught up in it all. I started killing kid’s parents. You know, to make them come after me? It’ll be fun to see if any of them actually have a chance at it. I’m starting up in Kansas tomorrow. Gonna be sweet._

_Met this kid today. Sammy. You should have seen him, Journal. He had such a fire in his eyes that I thought for a second that the house would burn down. Looking forward to meeting him in the future._

_Is it stalking if you watch a child? Or is that being a pedo? I don’t want to have sex with the kid, so I’m guessing that it’s not?_

_Sammy started high school today. He looked really nervous. There was these kids that gave him a hard time at the opening ceremony. They won’t be giving him trouble anymore._

_This obsession with Sammy needs to stop, Journal. It’s his job to track me down. Not the other way around. This will be my last entry. And I mean it this time._

_I finally have Sammy all to myself. He’s downstairs right now. He grew up smoking hot. And he has just as much fire in his eyes as ever. I fucked him so hard earlier. He bled, but I don’t care. Just glad that the object of my obsession is in my possession again._

_Marked Sammy today. Looks so fucking good on him._

_Sammy’s mine. All mine. Mine. Fucking mine. Mine forever._

_Sammy’s mine._

_Sammy’s mine._

_Sammy’s mine._

_Sammy’s mine._

_That boy belongs to me. Mind, body and soul, and he’s going to get that sooner rather than later._

Turning the next page, Sam realises that there’s nothing left to read. That’s the journal so far. Sam has no idea what to think about it all. Dean’s playing with his hair again, humming a song that Sam doesn’t recognise, but ultimately lulls him all the same.

Sam twists around and presses as close to Dean as he can, lips inches from the older mans. He stills himself, just hanging there in the centre of it all, wondering what Dean showing him this part of himself all means, and what he is supposed to think after the discovery. Right now, he’s not sure what to say. He kisses Dean full on the mouth, then drags his nail across his forearm, piercing the skin and arching his back as blood starts to leak from the wound.

Dean tracks his movement, eyes darkening with unconcealed lust as Sam brings his arm up to show off his handiwork.

“Does my blood look better than Tracey Jenkins’s?” Sam questions with a sultry look in his eyes.

Dean’s got him turned around and pressed against the bed before he can take his next breath. “No one’s blood looks better than yours, Sammy.”

Parting his lips, Sam writhes as Dean takes possession of his mouth, teeth sinking into his bottom lip, a growl erupting from the older man.

“My Sammy.”

Sam licks his lips. “Mind, body and soul.”


	19. One Man Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone gets the drop on Dean.

Dean’s honestly not sure how he feels right now. Sam’s ease with shrugging off his past has left him confused, intrigued, and more than a little agitated. He never imagined himself showing anyone that side of him—didn’t want people to know the truth about his past. How things could have turned out differently for him, had he not managed to put an end to it all on his own. He wonders what Sam was thinking as he was reading through the journal. Afterwards, Dean had been expecting an onslaught of questions about everything, but none of that came. Instead, Sam begged Dean to open up the wounds on his skin and drain him of the blood hidden beneath the flesh. It had been Dean’s absolute pleasure to do just that. It’s been a very long time since Dean’s chained Sam up in the torture room. Sleeping next to the man has become his routine, and he doesn’t want to let that go. Even if Sam does something to royally piss him off, Dean will find a way to make it acceptable for Sam to remain in his arms by the end of it when night falls. Dean thought that it would be less appealing when Sam started insisting that Dean cut him deeper than he had the previous time. It had the opposite effect, rendering Dean unable to breathe through the lust cloud swarming him from all angles.

What has Sam done to him? He’s never felt like this about a single person. Not even close, really. Not even when he pretended to be the perfect boyfriend to this whore that wouldn’t give it up until she was sure that she had found the one. Dean likes a challenge, more so than most people, and so he stuck it out for two months, being the best person that she would ever meet in her life. When it came time for him to collect, he took everything that she had to offer, and then he killed her, via strangulation with the underwear that she bought for the special occasion. He supposed that it was a fitting end for a job well done. Good girl turned whore by the one man that she would berate herself for in her afterlife, for ever offering Dean that part of herself that she wanted to keep for as long as she could.  But Dean’s good at games. And he’s even better at winning them.

It’s warm outside, and the area that surrounds him is full of potential choices for dinner, but he can’t seem to focus on that. He’s more concerned about the look Sam gave him after he said that he would be out for a few hours at the most. The younger man had seemed like he was scared that Dean would leave him—that this would be the end of their affair. Dean had felt satisfied by that, but also guilty for having to dessert Sam for as much time as he needed to get some shit done. Guilt isn’t something that Dean experiences very often, if at all. He hadn’t felt guilty when he killed his Father. He hadn’t felt guilty when he killed all of those families in different parts of America just for his amusement, spurred on by the delicious detail that this would scar those few that he allowed to live for the rest of their miserable existences. He hadn’t felt guilty when he decided to experiment with fire in Iowa, watching the once proud building turn to nothing but rubble before his eyes—guilt doesn’t come easy to a man such as him. Which is why it almost terrifies him that Sam can bring that out of him. It makes him question his own actions.

Has he been too lenient with Sam for too long? Should he assert himself in a more menacing way to feel like himself again? Does he even want that? All these thoughts are running through his head, making it harder for him to continue loading his sheets into the washer at the local Laundromat. Sure, he has one at home, but he felt like he needed to get away for a few hours just to clear his head. His control is slipping, and it’s not something that he can get to grips with just like that. He’s never _not_ been in control, so to actually suffer with the longing to be back with Sam at all seconds of the day, and barely manage to stop himself from running to his house to do just that, comes as a shock to his system that he’s not sure he likes.  

Dean wants to put all of the blame on Sam, to just take it all out on the younger man for making him feel this way. The other part of him—the dormant part that hasn’t been out to play for as long as Dean can remember—insists that this is a good thing. That at one point in Dean’s life he wanted to feel slightly normal, and this is his only opportunity to roll with the punches. If that means actually listening to his heart for once, then that’s just what he’s going to have to do.

Sam really is the perfect person for him. He’s taken to the life that Dean leads like a moth to a flame, proving himself worthy time and time again, as well as portraying his obedience for the older man. Sam doesn’t protest to any fantasies that Dean might have, even stepping it up during the act to make it seem like Sam really doesn’t want it, that he hates what’s happening to him, that he’ll get Dean back for it. The kid should of tried out for acting—he’s just as good as Dean when he’s on the hunt for his next prize. Also, Sam’s just as insatiable as Dean is when it comes to sex, and he wants it _all_ the time, which Dean is more than happy to comply with. Who knew that a guy that had never done _anything_ before could be hiding such an appetite for sex? Dean likes to think that it’s because he’s _that_ good at making Sam fall apart, only to put him back together again when it’s all over. Sure, Dean still really doesn’t like giving blowjobs, but Sam seems to appreciate it, so what the hell? At least it’s not his Father’s disgusting dick.

Lost in his thoughts about Sam, Dean grumbles a thank you to the person that _kindly_ let him know that his load is ready to come out of the washer now. Dean ignores the urge to slam their pompous head into the door repeatedly—he can’t allow his control to slip further than it already has. No one knows who he actually is around here, and he’d like it to stay that way. As long as people mind their own business, he won’t have to reveal that side of himself to the place that he has called home for several years. He’s grown accustomed to this area, and would _perhaps_ regret obliterating everyone that exists within it.

Transferring the wet sheets to the dryer proves difficult with the sudden dizziness wracking his frame. There is no way that he’s getting sick. Dean Winchester does not get sick, and he’ll be damned if yet another thing falls through the cracks. By the time that he’s got the sheets in the dryer, he’s barely holding it together. What the fuck is wrong with him? This just doesn’t happen. Not on his watch. Not when he takes such good care of himself. Not when he guarantees that none of his conquests are going to leave him feeling this way. After all, he doesn’t just pick up the first person that he sees. There’s research involved. Unless of course he’s feeling lazy, or really needs a quick fix. That’s not so much a problem now than it used to be. He has Sam for his quick fix, and the younger man is more than happy to help him out in his time of need.

Could it be that cry baby that Sam brought in the other night? If he’s starting to get something, does that mean that Sam is suffering the same as he is? He hopes not. Two sick people in the same place is just not a good thing in his book. Dean can’t believe this is happening to him. He feels so weak and pathetic, probably just like the idiots that he lures back to his lair for a bit of _fun._ Even if he _is_ coming down with something, there is no way that it would be this sudden, and this extreme in such a short space of time. He felt fine this morning, if a little light headed. But that could have easily been the sun blearing through the crease in the curtains, burning out his fucking retinas with the intensity of the rays. Nevertheless, that’s not something that would make him feel this way, regardless of the situation.

There has to be something that he’s not quite getting here. It’s possible that it’s someone in this dump. Then again, he’s been here barely under an hour. His immune system is made of stronger stuff than most people, so he doubts very much that something would render him so powerless in such a short space of time. Barrelling through the events of the day in his brain, Dean searches for anything that might hold the answer to his current state of nausea. Other than the morning sex with Sam, the omelette for breakfast, with a side of freshly ground coffee, the only other thing that has touched Dean’s lips is the bottle of water that he bought from the corner shop on his way to the Laundromat.

None of this is making sense to him. Even the water in Africa wouldn’t disable him this quickly. There has to be some other thing that he’s neglecting to notice here. Dean ignores the person calling out to him, asking if he’s all right. He pushes away the oncoming queasiness in his stomach, in favour of waiting out the dryer. Dean Winchester is made of fucking steel—this will not be the end of him. When he eventually goes out, it will be in a much _bigger_ way.

Using the strength that he has left in him, Dean secures his hand around his phone in his pocket, pulling it from the confines. He stares through the blurriness shrouding his vision, putting all that he has into locating Sam’s name. He dials as fast as he can, placing the device next to his ear. When Sam answers, his voice sounds relieved to be getting the call, so happy just to hear the other man.

Holding back a smirk, Dean stills Sam’s rambling about the pot roast that he’s making for Dean’s return. “Sammy... I... Laundromat... Dizzy...”

Dean doesn’t register Sam’s panicked tone through the device, but he does hear the impact of the floor against his head.

This can’t be good. Whatever it is.

 

When he comes to, he immediately takes note of the fact that he’s tied to a chair. Testing the binds for resistance immediately, Dean learns that they’re not something that he’s going to be able to break free of with just brute strength alone. Not that he has much of that to apply anyway. Blinking the fog from his eyes, Dean searches the room for any familiarity. When he finds none, he sighs. Looks like he’s in some apartment. It has a barely lived in vibe, but the smell of takeout food is heavy in the air, so he surmises that _someone_ lives here. That someone better show their face sooner rather than later. Dean would like to at least _see_ who got the drop on him after all these years of being the person to put people in _this_ position.

He curses inside his head for a moment. This happened because he let his guard down. This happened because he allowed himself to feel something. It might not have been much, but it had been enough for him to lower his defences, thus enabling the son of a bitch that brought him here the window of opportunity to take him down. If Sam didn’t happen to be constantly on his mind, none of this would be happening right now. Yes, it’s his fault for getting sloppy, but God damn, there’s gonna be hell to pay when he gets the fuck out of here.

Without having to even shift around, Dean can tell that his knife isn’t on his person. The feel of it is pretty much engrained into his skin, so he’s already angry that it’s not there. Not just for the obvious reason that he needs it right now. That knife is precious to him, and he’s going to get it back one way or another, and then use it on the asshole that got the drop on him.

Dean glares at nothing in particular, waiting for the coward to show themselves.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this day, Dean Winchester,” a male voice says from somewhere in the room. Dean rolls his eyes. Do they have to be dramatic about the whole thing? What’s the deal with the big entrance? Dean could care less who they are, or what he did to them to make them come after him. Whatever it is that they’re planning to do, they better get it over with fast. He’s a busy man, and he’d like to be back with his baby boy as quickly as possible.

“Real cute. I’d give you a standing ovation, but I’m a little _tied down_ at the moment,” Dean mutters, rolling his neck to release the tension. Whatever this asshole drugged him with is starting to wear off. It’s only a matter of time before all of his bearings are back where they belong, and he can think of a way out of here. It’s not like he hasn’t been in sticky situations before, with nothing but his brains and inability to accept defeat leading him to victory.

“You think you’re so funny, don’t you?” the guy snarls, revealing himself, with the help of the light casting through the square patterns of the window.

“I’m hilarious,” Dean replies plainly, utterly bored already.

The guy laughs out loud, glaring directly at Dean. “You think you’re in a position to be some kind of comedian?”

“Isn’t that why I’m here?” Dean answers, sounding surprised.

“You are _not_ funny.”

“Give it time. I’ll grow on you.”

When it seems like the dudes face is about to explode, he steps into Dean’s space, placing his hands on the arms of the chair. “Do you remember me?”

“Should I?” he returns, not at all interested in the yawn fest that will most likely follow, some tragic tale about how he left the kid in shambles, and he’s never been able to recover from the mess that Dean left him in. Boo-fucking-hoo. Get the fuck over it.

“I was seven. You killed my parents, then told me to try and kill you. To grow up big and strong and make it fun. Are you impressed?”

“Not especially.”

“Whatever. I went through orphanage after orphanage. Went through a lot of shit to get to where I am today. But none of that mattered. All that mattered was this day, just waiting for your guard to be down. And all that patience paid off spectacularly.”

Dean yawns obnoxiously loud. “You should definitely get the rights for that story before someone else snatches it up. It’s gold, seriously.”

The dumbass growls and punches him in the face, howling in pain from the impact, his hand retracting, nestled in the other one to soothe the ache. Dean smirks, twitching his nose like a bunny.

“You’ve got a major problem with flies in this house. You should do something about that.”

Glaring harshly, the idiot wraps his hand in a tea towel that he snatches off the couch, tending to the fractures in his skin. “You won’t be so smug for long, Dean Winchester. That’s a promise that I intend to keep. Not that it matters—“

“It really doesn’t. Oh. _Sorry_ , go on,” Dean blows out a lethargic breath, licking the roof of his mouth.

“My name is Liam. Remember now?” He grins, hope in his eyes that Dean at least recalls who he is.

Dean pretends to search his memory, fashioning a look of recollection in his eyes.

“Are you one that I branded?”

“No.”

“Are _you_ the one that I shaved the hair off just for fun?”

“ _No._ ”

“Are _you_ the one that had that awesome hot tub that I tried out before and after I murdered your parents?”

“No.”

Dean frowns, pretending to be caught up in actually making an effort to piece together who Liam is.

“Oh! Are you the one that had a dog named Terrance?”

“You’ll remember a fucking dogs name, but not a child that you left for dead?”

Dean shrugs. “Guess the dog had more personality than you.”

Liam gives Dean a look loaded with venom, throwing the used towel somewhere in the room. He traces back to what must be a kitchen. Dean hears a draw being opened, utensils rattling together. He rolls his eyes again. Liam clearly doesn’t know what he’s doing here. The dick has never done this before, and that’s what’s going to be his downfall in the end.

“You making me dinner? I would love to stay for whatever you’re preparing, but I have someone waiting for me at home,” Dean utters, as if he’s at a friend’s house, and not currently at the mercy of someone out for his blood.

The rattling stops, and Liam pops his head out. “Someone at home, huh?” That’s right, dumbass. Take the trap. Start thinking about how this could make the suffering that much more tasteful, involving someone that the captive actually gives a damn about. Yeah, this will work out just fine.

“Yeah. He’s worried about me. So, if you don’t mind?”

Liam moves behind Dean, pressing the sharpness of the blade against his throat. Dean doesn’t flinch at all, his expression could not be more bored at this point. Liam would like to think that he’s running this show, but he was never a contender in the first place.

As expected, Liam presents Dean with his own phone. So predictable.

“Call him. Tell him to come get you. Do it.”

“Why?” Keep the act up.

“Would you rather die?” Liam growls, lacking any sort of threat.

Dean rolls his shoulders, putting on the protective boyfriend act easily. “If you hurt hi—“

“Just do it,” Liam orders, pressing the knife that little bit closer.

Faking resignation, Dean dials Sam’s number.

_“Dean! Where the hell are you? Are you okay? What’s going on?”_

Sometimes, it’s impossible to stop the smirks that are brought on by Sam’s ability to just _get_ what’s happening without any explanation needed.

Liam tells Dean to put it on speaker, and hold it up so he can hear as well.

“I’m fine, baby. Forgot my car, and I can’t be bothered to walk. Think I’m coming down with something. But I ran into a friend. Just been hanging out here for a bit. Is it all right for you come and get me?”

Sam plays the doing boyfriend part just as beautifully as expected.

_“I told you that that dizzy spell this morning had to be something. You never listen to me, jackass. Of course I’ll come get you. What car do you want me to take?”_

Dean bites his bottom lip. That’s Sam asking what he needs to get out of this. His boy is a fucking genius.

“Take the Honda. Careful, though, parking looks like a bitch. You might end up in a tight spot.”

_“Please, my parking is envied by all. I can get out of any tight spots I might find myself in. Don’t worry, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”_

Ending the call, Dean stills the laugh bubbling in his chest.

God, this is just _too_ easy.


	20. Traditions Aren't Supposed to be Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liam's in way over his head. Dean couldn't be more relaxed, as well as bored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had lots of fun writing this one! :D 
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos and the comments and bookmarks... 
> 
> Seriously cannot believe that this has 17K hits. XD 
> 
> Onwards~!~!~!~!~!~

Liam is confused by these turn of events. The man that is tied to the chair in this dingy apartment that he rented out for this particular endeavour just doesn’t seem like the ruthless maniac that slaughtered his family all those years ago. Yes, he’s still going to get his revenge, and having the dude’s lover here is going to be the icing on the proverbial cake. The guy must be some type of mastermind to catch Dean Winchester, or maybe just someone that holds a special place in his heart. Liam doesn’t know. At the end of it all, he doesn’t care, either. Phase one of his plan is complete. That’s what’s important here. Adding the boyfriend to the mix doesn’t complicate anything, just makes it all the more tasteful. Liam had been hoping that no one innocent would have to suffer in all of this, but it’s the type of revenge that he has been looking to from the very day that Dean left him there, sobbing over the corpses of his parents. Tit for tat and all that. Maybe it would be better for him to allow Dean to live, knowing that he’s lost the one person in the world that actually has meaning in his life? Sure, that sounds good on paper, but Liam is not at all willing to give Dean the chance to get him back after it all blows over. Who would in their right mind give a sick fuck like this guy the chance to hunt them down? No one that’s actually _sane._

Dean’s calm demeanour is off-putting. He doesn’t seen the least bit intimidated by the whole scenario that is playing out. He looks bored to death, whistling to himself, despite how many times Liam has demanded that he shut his trap, even threatened to gag the fucker. Dean had calmly informed him that if he attempts that, he will lose a finger or two, and Liam isn’t willing to take that risk with this guy. In this situation, he’s supposed to have the upper hand. He has Dean right where he wants him, and he’s terrified. His heart is beating wildly in his chest—he’s sweating buckets just looking at the man. Every time that he’s caught staring at his captive, the guy winks at him, like he knows that he’s practically shitting himself over here.

Realistically when thrown into this type of situation, the captive should not be running the whole show, when he’s not even lifting a finger to suggest that he even cares about what’s going on here. Liam feels as though he doesn’t have the upper-hand, even if Dean is subdued. Dean’s not struggling against the binds. His posture is completely relaxed, like he could do this all day. Shouldn’t Dean be worried that his lover is on his way here, not knowing that as soon as he goes through that door, that he’s going to be restrained just like Dean? What’s up with that? Why is Dean just sitting there, whistling some crappy song that Liam can’t even begin to determine the source to, and acting as casual as a guy enjoying a movie at the local theatre? If the roles were reversed, Liam would be begging for his life.

“Shouldn’t you be more worried about your boyfriend?”

Dean tilts his head to the side, grinning. “Buddy, believe me. If he gets hurt in any way at all. When I get out of this, and I will. _Run._ ”

Liam swallows the lump in his throat, pretending that he’s not scared, when really he’s about ten seconds from aborting this entire operation, and just getting out of dodge as soon as he can.

“How can you be so sure?” Liam snaps, agitated, focusing all of his energy on that, and not the doubts in his mind about this not going the way that he originally hoped.

As if he’s speaking with a very _slow_ child, Dean snorts. “You have _no idea_ what you’re doing here. You don’t have the _guts_ to end someone, let alone an innocent in all this,” he answers, totally relaxed, while ignoring the discomfort in his arms. “I’m not gonna deny that I did something to you, even if I have no idea who you are. There’s a good chance that I did, and that you’ve got the right guy. I mean, come on, I’m _hard_ to forget. Face like mine? One in a billion. Yours? One in ten,” Dean pauses, laughing at his own comparison. “Here’s how this is gonna go down, Jeffrey—“

“My name is Liam, you asshole,” Liam corrects scornfully, indignant that this mad man can’t even pay him the courtesy of at least getting his name right, when he can’t remember the reason why this is happening to him in the first place.

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, whatever. I’m gonna get out of this. And then I’m gonna kill you. Simple as that.”

“I’m the one with the knife.”

“Mhm.”

The idea of taking a step outside is appealing to Liam. It would give him a chance to clear his head, and put up some barriers against this psychological warfare being dished out by the object of his obsession. Taking that chance could cost him, though. Who knows how crafty Dean is? For all Liam knows, the man could be a regular Houdini, and then _he_ would be the one on the chopping board. No, he just has to stick it out. When Dean’s lover gets here, things are going to take a turn for the better. Liam can feel it. They probably have no idea what type of person Dean is. Maybe he can even convince them that the world would be better off without Dean in it? Now, wouldn’t that be a nice twist to end his tale?  

Liam had gotten caught up in the moment for a spell, and so when he returns his sights to his captive, he nearly wets himself on the spot. Dean is staring at him so intensely and psychotically, that Liam is surprised that the man’s eyes haven’t popped out of his head. Dean’s lips are moving as he sings a song that Liam is sure isn’t by any artist—making the blood in his veins run colder than the Arctic ice itself.

_“I’m gonna kill you, Liam. I’m gonna kill you, Liam. I really am. I really am. I really am. I’m gonna kill you, Liam. I’m gonna kill you, I am. I’m gonna kill you, Liam. I really am. I really am. I really am.”_

The same words are sung over and over, setting the hairs on his skin upright, rigid and tense, ready to fall off from the stress permeating all over him. Dean just won’t stop. His eyes aren’t even _blinking._ Every word that he sings sounds so true, so authentic, like he has zero doubts that that’s what’s going to happen. How the hell is he supposed to deal with that? Liam can feel himself shaking violently, bile rising in his throat, no other way to swallow it down, forcing him off his spot. Liam rushes over to the disgusting sink in the kitchen, emptying the contents of his stomach into the centre, immediately turning the tap to clear the waste.

Dean hasn’t stopped.

_“Liam, you’re so weak. You’re really, really weak. You make this too easy.  Weak little Liam. Weak little Liam needs to throw in the towel.”_

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Liam screams, shoving the stuff off the counters. He tears a door off one of the cupboards, throwing it through the window to his right, adrenaline pumping in his veins.

_“Liam’s having a temper tantrum. Liam’s having a temper tantrum. Poor little Liam can’t take the heat. He shouldn’t swim with the Sharks.”_

“Shut the fuck up, you son of a bitch! I don’t want to hear anymore of your singing. I’m in charge here, and you better remember that!” Liam bellows, charging into Dean’s space, gripping his chin, angling Dean’s head so that he has to look at him. Dean just looks bored, and then he makes a kissy face.

“I knew it wasn’t just me that felt the sexual tension in the air,” Dean teases, licking his lips.

Liam dials back like he’s been burned. “I’m not gay.”

“No offence, dude, but even if I weren’t with someone right now, I wouldn’t even try to convince _you_ into bed. You just... Don’t do _anything_ for me.”

Before Liam can respond to that, the sound of the door knocking draws his focus. He grins, casting one last look at Dean before steadily approaching the door.

“Dean? You in there? Come on, man, the cars still running, and I don’t have a lot of gas, but enough to get us back home,” Sam yells through the door, knocking again for good measure.

Liam calms his nerves with a controlled breath through his nose, putting on a smile in hopes that it plays through his voice. “Yeah, hey man. Sorry, your friends in here. I’m just opening the door now,” he mutters, acting friendly, as he reaches for the handle, gun at the ready.

“Bam,” Dean announces, at the same time that the door flies off its hinges, slamming into Liam with brute force behind it, knocking him on his ass, gun skimming across the floor, due to the nature of the attack. He tries to roll over, pushing himself onto his feet, while wondering what the hell just happened here. His breath catches in his throat, when a strong arm, seemingly out of nowhere ensnares his neck, applying a small amount of pressure. He struggles against it, kicking, digging his nails into the skin of his aggressors arm, all the while seeing the smug grin on Dean Winchester’s face, who couldn’t look more pleased in this moment, like he knew that this was going to be the result from the very beginning... How could he have let this happen? Who is this guy? Liam can feel himself losing the fight in him, his vision starting to blur from the choke-hold.

Dean’s words ring in his head. _I’m gonna kill you, Liam. I really am. Here’s how this is gonna go down, Jeffery— Yeah, whatever. I’m gonna get out of this.  Then I’m gonna kill you. Simple as that. Weak little Liam. Weak little Liam needs to throw in the towel. Liam’s having a temper tantrum. He shouldn’t swim with the Sharks._

And just like that, he loses consciousness.

 

“Rise and shine. It’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining in the sky. The birds are singing a lovely tun—“

“We bit overkill there, Dean.”

“Can it, Sammy. You’re ruining my fun.”

“I’m the reason you’re not in that chair.”

“I would have gotten out of it.”

“Oh, yeah? How?”

“I would have found a way. Just shut up,” Dean replies, rolling his eyes at Sam’s bitch face. He snaps his fingers in Liam’s face, slapping him on the cheek a few times, demanding that he wake the fuck up because he’s bored of this shit already.

Bleary eyes start to open, taking in their surroundings, subject to two grinning faces. One a face of peril and promises of demise. The other so saccharine that it makes him feel sick.

“Hey, sleepy head,” Dean taunts, cooing at Liam, presenting his favourite knife that this asshole stole from him earlier. “How’d you sleep?”

“Dean, who even is this guy?” Sam asks, running a hand through his hair.

“How the fuck should I know?” Dean responds, nicking the skin above Liam’s eye, relishing the surprised scream that the actions rewards him.

“ _This guy_ got the jump on _you_?” Sam teases incredulously, scratching an invisible itch on his nose, when Dean glares at him.

“Excuse me for thinking about you at home suffering from the same thing I was.”

“Aw... You care about me, you big loveable psycho, you,” Sam mutters, biting his finger.

Dean snorts. “That’s the last time I put anyone before me, if that’s the thanks I get.”

Sam cups Dean’s package shamelessly, giving a gentle squeeze as he whispers hotly in Dean’s ear. “Oh, I promise to show you _exactly_ how thankful I am.”

Deciding that he really can’t be asked to make this last longer than it needs to, Dean yanks Sam’s head toward his and claims his mouth, shoving his tongue in as far as it will go, imitating what he will be doing with his dick later, in a different orifice, both of them making obscene noises with the exchange, not the least bit bothered that they have a one-man audience, who clearly has no idea what the fuck is going on, but is staying quiet because he assumes that he’ll live longer that way.  

Releasing Sam for the time being, Dean shoves his hand down the back of the younger man’s jeans, melding it over one of Sam’s firm globes, digging his fingers into the taught skin.

“I am going to fuck you _so_ hard when we’re done with this, baby boy.”

Sam leers at him. “Please do.”

They stare at each other for longer than is considered appropriate in any sense of the word, both beating their lust-addled brains into submission for the time being. Dean has no desire to let Liam off the hook for managing to capture him. That’s just not going to fly where he’s concerned, even if the idea of bending Sam over that rugged couch is far more appealing at this moment. 

“All right. Let’s get this over with,” Dean remarks lethargically, handing Sam one of the knives from the draw. “You need to practice your signature. The last one looked real sloppy,” he notes, tearing Liam’s shirt open. He gives Sam the left side, as he starts to work on the right, encouraging Liam to scream all he wants. No one is going to hear him. This place isn’t exactly a prime location for real-estate, which means that Liam probably got this place cheap. To his credit, it’s the _only_ thing that he actually did right here. Everything else just didn’t play out in his favour, which just makes it easier for the two of them.

As he’s working on the ‘E’, he glances over at Sam’s side, nodding his head in acknowledgement that Sam’s doing a decent job, definitely ten times better than the one before this. They continue their work in silence, ignoring all the moans of agony coming from their canvas. Dean tells him to stop wriggling a few times, but other than that, they pretty much don’t exchange any words.

When Dean’s happy with his mark, he steps back to admire it, noticing Sam’s just about ready to finish out of the corner of his eye. What he sees has saliva building in his mouth, and copious amounts of blood rushing to his dick. Dean’s not even sure that Sam had been aware of what he’s doing, of what he’s doing to Dean in this moment. Sam’s signature has changed. It doesn’t say Sam Wesson. It says... It says...

_Sam Winchester._

“Sammy,” Dean breathes hard, his jeans remarkably tight at this moment.

Sam trails his eyes to Dean, fear setting in when he sees the look in them. He thinks that he must have done something wrong. That he messed the whole thing up. Sam has seen that grin before, and it never means anything good. Oh, fuck. He’s _so_ going to get it later—not at all in the way that he’s hoping for, too. Why did he have to mess up now? For fuck sake.

Just as he’s about to apologize, he finds himself suddenly in Liam’s lap, blood seeping into the back of his shirt, and Liam groaning in pain beneath him. He ignores that completely, staring up at the man that he’s grown to—unbelievably—love. Dean’s grinding his covered arousal against Sam’s awakening erection, sliding against him in just the _right_ way—the perfect way that has Sam reeling. Dean’s got his hands in Sam’s hair, rutting up against him like a horny teenager, repeatedly thrusting against him. Sam can almost feels the damp spot along the front of Dean’s jeans as he repeats his actions, not stopping until his teeth sink into his bottom lip, immediately sealing over Sam’s own to cover a moan of pleasure as he apparently comes in his trousers, which shoves Sam right off the edge with him, wetting his jeans, while lacking any shame at all towards the action.

Dean is kissing him so passionately, and so deeply, that Sam’s surprised they haven’t formed into one person at this point. Liam keeps groaning beneath them, but they could give a rats ass about that right now.

When Dean releases him, Sam’s sure that he could cry. That kiss had so much packed into it, that Sam’s confused about where he is right now. The kiss literally blew his fucking mind—his brain was just practically sucked out through his mouth, and he has no idea what to do now.

“Did you mean to do that, Sammy?”

“What?” Sam pants, swallowing.

“You wrote my last name instead of yours. Was that on purpose?” Dean asks, heat still scorching in his eyes.

Sam nods sheepishly, daring to smooth his knuckles along the expanse of Dean’s right cheek, knowing that Dean’s not really into the whole touchy stuff.

“I wasn’t sure that you’d like it. But I belong to you, Dean. And... I love you.”

There. He said it. There’s no taking that back now. He’s not expecting Dean to say it back, not at all. It would be awesome if he did, but Sam’s not going to hold on to any hopes of that happening. Sam doesn’t think that Dean is ready to commit to anything like love right now. There’s just no way that Dean’s going to openly admit that he has feelings inclined towards that. Sam doesn’t blame him. He understands the cards that he has been dealt in this game, and he’s just going to have to work with what he’s given.

As expected, Dean doesn’t say the words back. He simply grins, confirms that he knew that, rights himself back into a standing position, pulls Sam up to one, too, and then offers him his favourite blade, saying without words that he can deliver the final blow.

“You earned it, baby boy.”

Sam smiles at him, caressing the knife like it’s the most precious thing in the world, like a new born baby. Then, without hesitation, he slashes it across Liam’s throat, blocking out the former pleas for him not to do this, that he won’t come after Dean again.

The point of the matter is that he _did_ go after Dean.

No one goes after Dean and _lives_ to tell the tale.

That’s tradition, right there.

And there’s no breaking tradition.

 


	21. The Truth Is Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean reveals the truth to Sam about the night that they officially met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this has taken so long! I've been going through writers block for a while now. It's just hard for me to stick to one thing, but I made a commitment, and I intend to follow it through. Yes, this is a short chapter. But it's all it needed. I'm sorry if it disappoints you. 
> 
> Please enjoy! 
> 
> Onwards~!~!~!~

_Dean remembers this day very vividly. Not just because he’s dreaming about it. It puts a warm feeling in his stomach whenever the thought crosses his mind. He recalls the smell of the air that day, how it had been just_ that _side of humid, provoking Dean to ponder whether or not he should have gone for something less sweat-inducing. At the time, however, he hadn’t cared about that sort of thing. On that day, he was going to make contact with the little boy that he had been tailing for a long time. Over the past few months, Dean had learnt everything about the kid. His name was Sam. He liked the academic side of things at school. Not a lot of people knew who he was, as he liked to stick to his studies, instead of making friends, and the boy was very close to his Mother. Dean knew that in order for him to bring out the fighter in Sam, he had to get rid of the only person that was getting in the way of it all._

_Sam’s Mother._

_Dean can see the bench that he opted for, while watching Sam’s Mother go about her daily business, picking up the dinner supplies to celebrate Sam’s good grades, which were practically guaranteed. He watched her for hours. Longer than he normally would, as he had to get this just right, otherwise it would never have worked out the way that he wanted it to from the beginning. To get from A to B, he had to know what she wanted; what type of person she was; how to get into that house, without using other means that could possibly leave a trail. All of these things had to be considered back then, as Dean was still learning who he was, and exactly what he was capable of._

_Now, Dean knew back then that he still had a charming personality that could win over practically anyone, given the right amount of coaxing. Nevertheless, Mothers were always the trickiest to fool. It could have something to do with the built in reinforced guard that they develop after giving birth, to keep their offspring from harm. And to their credit, Dean was harmful. Not to the kids—well, not all of them. The one’s that got ahead of themselves had to be silenced, otherwise they would have ruined everything for him._

_Gathering information on someone is the best way to learn how to gain their trust, and so that’s what Dean had been doing for however long now. Dean had realized very early on in the chase that Sam’s Mother took to caution like a moth to a flame. Every street corner the woman approached, she slowed down, in order to anticipate what might be around the corner. All the crossings were handled with care. Dean figured that she did all that because she wouldn’t be able to protect her son from the grave. Little did she know that she was going there either way, be it the Lorry that forgets to put on the breaks, or Dean’s baby slicing through her jugular._

_Patience was never something that came easy to Dean. So many times during this whole fiasco, he had just wanted to get it all over with. It wouldn’t be that much of an effort to silence her, but it would put a stop to his whole plan of Sam seeing the whole thing, reliving it every night as he tried to drift off to sleep, and laying the ground work for that blood thirsty hatred that Dean needed from the kid. So, unfortunately for Dean, patience was what it had to be._

_Luckily for him, he knew that that day would be the day that his scheme would come to fruition. Dean had learnt everything that he needed to, lending him the confidence that he can get the woman to trust him. All he needed was the right opportunity to get started, which he would have to create himself. Nothing in life comes easy, and sometimes people had to put the work in to get what they wanted at the end of it all. Which was why Dean found himself veering into the lamppost just at the edge of the street that Sam lived on with his Mother._

_During Dean’s recognisance, he discovered that Sam’s Mother would never let an opportunity to help someone slip if she could actually do something about it, evidenced by her door opening, her summer-dress flowing in the wind as she ran towards the totalled car. Dean had been in crashes before—enough to know what precautions to take to lighten the damage load, while also offering him the skills to act like he’s in more pain than he might realize._

_Sam’s Mother had asked him if he was all right multiple times, which he responded to with a weak nod. She offered to call an ambulance for him, but he begged her not to, as he just didn’t have the money to afford the bill, and that his insurance wouldn’t cover it. When she went on to question why that was, he opened up about recently being let go at work, that everything has been going downhill for him ever since his wife left him._

_Sure, Dean had been young at the time, and that sort of bald faced lie might have been harder to believe, had he not executed it in the right way. It was moments like those that Dean thought to himself he could have chosen a different career path, had he wanted to. Going into details would have hurt his case, and so he opted to just glaze over the whole thing. Sam’s Mother was nothing but understanding to his cause, and helped manoeuvre his injured form into her house the best that she could, given how petite she was._

_Once inside the house, Dean requested a glass of water, assuring her that tap would be just fine, as he just needed something to moisten his throat, which would have gone dry from the shock of the_ accident. _Sam’s Mother went off without a beat, trying to talk to him through the layers of walls, promising Dean that he would be okay, and that he would pull through this in no time. And, as much as Dean would have liked to have listened to the woman go on and on about how he was such a handsome man—that he would meet that special someone soon, that would bring him back to the person that he used to be before his life fell to pieces, Dean had other things in mind._

Dean’s eyes snap open, taking in his room, scenting the last remnants of sex in the air. Sam’s still as a corpse in his arms, body aligned perfectly with his own, ass to cock, longish hair brushing the older man’s nose. He wants to wake him up, tell him about the dream that he just had. Not for the reason that that’s what people in relationships tend to do, sharing everything and the like—he wants to tell Sam the _truth_ about that night.

Rolling his eyes, Dean wonders to himself briefly when _anything_ in his life became a choice. There is no choice with him. It’s his way, or get the fuck out.

“Sammy, get the fuck up,” Dean whispers hotly in the younger man’s ear, squeezing a toned buttock. Sam stirs immediately, mumbling about lousy horn dogs and their inability to let people sleep it off first. Frowning, Dean rolls the man over, pleased when a loud crash echoes from the ground, and sleep rumpled hair appears above the sheets.

“Was that necessary?” Sam grits.

“Don’t take that tone with me, Sammy, or I’ll have you eating out of a bowl. Now get up here,” Dean demands, smiling smugly when the ex-detective does just that, lowering his head in shame for raising his voice. “C’mere,” he instructs, drawing Sam in for a slow, but deep kiss. He releases him after a few moments, displaying himself against the head board, legs spread apart, pointed look on his face. Sam gets it in a heartbeat, sitting between Dean’s legs, back to chest, just like it is most of the time now, after Dean’s revelation.

“Are there more journals or something?”

“Smart ass,” Dean retorts, nibbling Sam’s shoulder.

Sam snorts. “Well, this does bring back a memory.”

“Yeah, well this is one of mine, so shut your mouth and listen up.”

In the next half an hour, Dean details his dream to Sam, who listens in absolute silence, not even flinching when Dean mentions the way that he got Sam’s Mother right where he wanted her. As Dean’s describing the twist, the way he knocked the woman out, with a blow to the head, and then dragged her down to the basement, Sam does not react at all. Dean’s not sure if that’s a good sign, or a bad one. He hopes that by this point, nothing matters to Sam at all. That’s how it should be. Sam should be happy that that woman is out of their lives, otherwise this never would have existed between them.

“I told you that I fucked her,” Dean says, not one iota of shame in his tone. “I didn’t. It’d been too long. That whole scheme. I just wanted to play until you got back. Maybe I would have if I hadn’t gotten laid a few hours before. All she said while I was cutting into her was, “Please don’t hurt my son,” and I just said that you weren’t worth my time at the moment.”

“You acted like you didn’t know my name back then, why?” Sam asks, and his tone is nothing but curiosity.

Dean grins. “Well, you were a smart kid. Things might have turned out differently if you had known that it had been a long time coming.”

“Did you do that with others?”

“Not really. When I started out, everything was a learning curve, like it was for you.”

Sam tilts his head back, staring into Dean’s magnetic green eyes. “Did you see this coming?”

“You were a kid, Sammy.”

“I know, but you watched me as the years went by, like it says in your journal.”

Sighing, Dean reaches down and squeezes the engraving of his name on Sam’s bare flesh. “If you hadn’t grown up to be as smoking hot as you are, this wouldn’t have been a factor. The thing that I saw in you was fire. Just a dim flame, that needed the air to set it ablaze.”

Sam laughs. “That’s oddly poetic.”

“Yeah, and you won’t hear much more of that.”

 

Bobby Singer is just the head of forensics, and it’s what he knows best, deep down to his bones. It’s what he trained for, and something that he’s always wanted to do in his life. Taking the time to transfer those skills into some detective work has been an uphill battle so far, but he’s finally starting to make some progress.

“What are you doin’, son?”

The shot of Sam Wesson, greatest detective in America as far as he’s concerned, sitting around a bar at a nightclub, talking to some twinkie looking guy is staring right back at him. None of this makes sense. If he’s not missing, what the hell is he doing with his life?

Here in front of Bobby lies a piece of a puzzle that he just can’t find the correct shape for.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be longer, and will have some other characters involvement--sort of an outside look, I guess.


	22. The Other Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby decides to take matters into his own hands. Surprise, surprise--someone is still one step ahead of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this has taken so long, and that it's not long. But that's not really the problem here. Chapters end when they end, and that's really just the way that it is! I have a Asus Switch at my disposal now, and so I will be able to update faster, when I'm not working. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone that has left Kudos on my work, left a comment, and read this madness that is my story. This is what happens when I am allowed free will. XD

Bobby Singer couldn’t be more surprised that he’s here. This isn’t his job, and it’s certainly not something that he’s an expert in. Nevertheless, he seems to be the only one that hasn’t given up hope on finding Sam Wesson, therefore he’s been left with zero other choice other than to pursue this lead on his own. The image of Sam sitting at the bar still lingers in his mind. For a long time, he wondered if he should have actually brought it to someone that could stand a chance of comprehending what to do with the information. Something in the back of his mind told Bobby that he should see the lead through, and if anything comes up, that will be the time to take this to higher authorities.

The music in this place is giving the forensics expert a pounding headache. None of it makes sense. There’s no linear quality to it whatsoever. It’s just noise, as far as he’s concerned. Everyone around Bobby ignored his presence—too young and dumb, and willing to let these rejects do anything that their filthy minds can come up with to them, courtesy of the amount of alcohol that they happen to be consuming. To be fair, he’d rather they not interact with him right now. There’s only one person that he needs to talk to in this disgusting heap of a place, and they should be serving drinks behind the bar.

Bobby understands that he’s not wanted here. The Bouncer at the door made it perfectly clear that there were bars down the road more suited to his. . .age. After Bobby explained part of the reason that he was here, flashed his badge and promised that he wouldn’t cause any trouble unless absolutely necessary, the burly man allowed him entrance, his face practically leaking by the time Bobby passed into the building. If he hadn’t been so distracted during those moments, he might have felt sorry for the poor sod.

At this moment in time, Bobby could really do with a drink. But none of this watered down shit is going to do anything to calm his nerves. There are so many possibilities going through his mind regarding why Sam was even here in the first place. If he’s safe, why hasn’t he come home? Or at least called him to let him know he’s okay.

When Sam joined the force a few years ago, Bobby could see from the moment that he met the guy that he had been raring to go, and there had been a chip on the big boy’s shoulder for quite some time. At first, Bobby never brought up Sam’s obsession with news regarding Dean Winchester, criminal master mind. Bobby had understood that it’s more than possible for a serviceman to become enamoured with someone they consider to be their hardest catch. Bobby saw this in Sam, and he’s seen it in others previous to that. Unfortunately, serial killers can catch someone’s interest, causing them to be helplessly consumed in their crazy trail, leading to a life of solidarity, due to the lack of passion for anything else that may or may not be happening in their lives.

In the beginning, Bobby had just been useful to Sam. Nothing more, nothing less. Sam just hadn’t been letting anyone in. Bobby was by no means anyone’s Bitch or Lap-Dog, but he didn’t seem to mind getting the information to Sam first, without consulting the people that he should have, because Sam had been a lost man, clearly broken into tiny pieces, who threw all of his concentration and devotion into his job. Bobby had admired that about Sam. He had been so strong, taking on everything that he could at one time—getting results as soon as possible. A born leader, Bobby had thought one day when Sam successfully managed to extract seven hostages from a hardware store without a single fatality.

It had come as no surprise to the man when Sam receives his promotion after only being with his department for less than a year. They had tried to take him out to celebrate, but Sam chose to stay at the office, flipping through that Godforsaken book over and over again. Rinse, repeat, it seemed. Having seen the contents of that book, Bobby can hardly understand why Sam perused it so often. The graphic imagery alone had been enough to make him physically sick to his stomach. It had been a dead end, however. Nothing could point them to a location. No witnesses were ever dredged up—or if there were any, they never came forward with what they saw.

Bobby can’t honestly say that he blames them. A character such as Dean Winchester could make a Marine Admiral cry. If any would have approached them, and given them a last known whereabouts—or something along those lines, they would have had to have promised to keep them safe, although Bobby isn’t one hundred percent sure that they would be able to adhere to that. Dean’s also vastly intelligent, not to mention charming as all Hell.

Several years ago, Bobby had heard that Alpha Unit Four successfully tracked down the most wanted man in the whole of the US— _Dean._ They had trapped him in a shipment container, feeling confident that Dean would stand down with heavy artillery directed at his body. From what Bobby picked up over the radio before it all went silent, had been Dean’s taunts that they didn’t stand a chance against him.

_“I’m gonna be the only one leaving here today. That’s the truth. Are you all ready to die?”_

Bobby shudders at the memory, wishing he could have a hot shower right about now to wash off the unease that came with that particular recall. According to the report, Dean had seen the ambush coming and prepared. Within a few moments after his declaration that they all would die, Dean threw what looked to be a kids toy. One of those popping things the little hooligans like to throw at the ground, and then there was the sound of a huge explosion nearly knocking Bobby on his ass. As it happens, Dean had planned ahead, manufacturing makeshift bombs, designed to be set off by a certain chemical that can be found in those explosive balls. Bobby had never doubted that Dean may be more than a psycho, but that’s what proved it all right there. With minimal time and space between trying to avoid those that were hunting him, Dean managed to pull off a win, almost as if he had been shown the way—probably by the Devil, himself.

Scrunching his face up in revulsion towards that man, Bobby finally takes a seat at the bar. He feels completely out of place. There’s sweat leaking through his jacket, and he knows that it’s not _just_ from the heat of this place. Something in the air is making him feel all strung up. It could be the realisation that this could all be for nothing—that maybe the footage was from months ago, before Sam even went missing. For all Bobby knew, Dean might not even be responsible for this. Which, to his own ears sounds ludicrous. If anyone is behind this whole mess, it has to be that man. It just _has_ to be.

Blowing out a soothing breath, Bobby lifts his hand to signal the bartender, a very handsome man, with dirty blonde hair, a well portioned body, and the most stunningly green eyes that Bobby has ever seen. He looks like he could have anyone in the room, and from scanning the hoard of people at the bar, the feeling is entirely too mutual. There’s no way that Bobby is going to get a chance to _interrogate_ the guy, not with all these young, hot bodies fighting for his attention.

To his utter surprise, green eyes lock with his.

* * *

 

Dean knew that it would only be a matter of time before the stubborn forensics expert that Sam has told him _all_ about would throw caution to the wind, doing a little investigating of his own. Getting the job hadn’t been hard at all. When Dean was younger, he worked all kinds of bars, and it bores him now just as much as it did all those other times. Luckily, he won’t have to do this much longer, as the prise is looking at him expectantly, as though he has a million questions on the tip of his tongue.

Sam, the little fucking genius that he is, hacked Bobby’s computer from the office, finding anything and everything that the older man succeeded in getting his grubby paws on, including the video footage of Sam in this very same bar not too long ago. Dean couldn’t very well have that getting out there now, could he? Not when he could do something about it. Sam didn’t even flinch when Dean informed him that he would _deal_ with their problem, adding that he would punish Sam for not being careful enough later. Research is key, after all. Avoiding the cameras is top priority. In this case, Dean doesn’t have a choice. No one knows who he is here, so that’s not such a big deal. It would be a big deal if something happens to go wrong here.

The hillbilly wannabe hasn’t got the slightest idea who he is, either, but he can’t take the risk of Bobby recognising him in some way,

Dean swiftly approaches the older man, slapping a smile on his face, like all the other employees here pretending they a give shit about any of these people’s lives.

“What can I get you, man?”

Bobby arches an eyebrow, seemingly confused that Dean is talking to him, when there are younger, hotter, more willing bodies on the other side of the bar. Dean can see that he’s not going to complain about it or nothing, though.

“Just a beer for me, please. In the meantime,” Bobby takes a pause, securing his badge from his inside pocket. Dean regards it seriously, playing the part of someone instantly assuming that they might be in trouble, while knowing that they’ve done _nothing_ wrong to begin with. “I have some questions that I’d like to ask you.”

“Am I in trouble?” Dean feigns distress, busying himself with grabbing a beer for his _customer._

Bobby chuckles. “No, kid. Just need to iron out some details, is all.”

“Well, anything that I can help you with, I will.”

Nodding, the older man presents a picture of Sam. One before he became Dean’s psychotic lover, who’s currently back at the house, squirming uncomfortably with a plug in his rectum, keeping all of Dean’s come from their morning and afternoon activities together. Dean feels his cock stir, but tamps it down for now. He can take care of that when this is all over.

“This is Samuel Wesson—“

_Sammy Winchester._ Dean’s mind supplies, his ego purring like a satisfied cat.

“—, the last place that he was seen was here, at this bar, where I’m sitting. Do you recognise him? I know that you weren’t serving that night, but did you maybe catch him while you were wandering through? He’s kind of hard to miss, what with being freakishly tall and all.”

Dean can see the desperation in Bobby’s voice to just find something here. To be given that one shred of hope that might lead to the retrieval of his friend. Too bad that’s never going to happen. Not while there’s still air in Dean’s lungs, and he has the power to mutilate anyone that even comes close to _his_ Sammy.

Bringing back the act, Dean surveys the image in front of him, showcasing all of the focus on his face, until suddenly there’s a flash of recognition in his eyes that has Bobby leaning on the edge of his seat, attempt at taking a sip of his beer completely forgotten.

“Does he have dimples when he smiles?”

Bobby blanches. “He does, yeah. Do you know him?”

_Always leave them wanting more._

“He doesn’t come here often. To be honest, he doesn’t say much. Just kind of hangs by the bar and has a few drinks. I don’t know why he’s such a big deal to you, and that’s none of my business to begin with. If you want, I finish for the night soon. I could take you to where I last saw him. You never know—he could still be there.”

_Fall into my trap, little piggy._

Seconds turn into minutes, as Bobby vigorously contemplates what to do next. Dean can see the man’s thoughts like they’re a movie in high definition. Clearly, he’s not a moron. He doesn’t like the idea of going somewhere with a stranger. That makes sense. Most people these days are very sceptical about that. The thing that will tip this in Dean’s favour is the _need_ to know something. Even the idea that you have a chance to find the answers to those question that have been eating away at the subconscious for far too long now, can outweigh a lot of cons that come with temporarily putting your trust in someone that you have _just_ met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before people start yelling at me about Bobby dying, I haven't decided yet. There are a few things that I could do with him now that he's more in the picture. 
> 
> Let me know what you guys think! 
> 
> If the juices keep flowing, I might be able to get another one up tonight before I have to go to bed, as I have to wake up at 6AM--remember, I'm British, and therefore have different times to you guys! 
> 
> Piece, guys!
> 
> -Kieran


	23. You're Requited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean can't take this sudden array of feelings--he needs to show Sam the only way that he knows how. There's a fear in the air that maybe Sam has been playing him this entire time.

It worked. Of course it worked, this is Dean Fucking Winchester. People just don’t say no to him. And if they do, then they are going to be in Hell. It’s that simple. Bobby lost all of his self-control the moment that he laid eyes on Dean. That’s how it starts. He captivates them with his eyes, drawing them into his circle. Then, he soothes them with the tone of his voice, making sure that they can see that this isn’t something that will happen more than once in their lifetime. It just doesn’t work that way. They have to be in it to win it if they ever want to get anywhere with him. They reveal that Dean doesn’t play games, and he’s not looking for anything in particular. Eyes that are open to any and all aspects of the world, taking an _interest_ in everyone else that surrounds him. None of this is true, obviously. Dean _loves_ to play games. Games mean a lot to him, but giving off that impression would make it that much harder to get any work done. It would be like having six extra helpings of paperwork. Dean finds that it has worth, sticking it out for a while, being a gentleman in all the right places, so that he can get what _he_ wants when darkness covers the sky.

Giving Bobby the hope that he might be able to see his friend again—all based on possibility, with no guarantee whatsoever--, led them to Dean’s house. Yes, he decided to just take him back to his torture chamber, leaving instructions for Sam to carry out in a voicemail, that he has the upmost confidence that _his_ Sammy will pull off without a hitch. It wouldn’t have done any good to just guide Bobby somewhere secluded—too many people saw the gruff looking guy, who couldn’t have failed more to fit in their even if he tried. There would be far too many loose ends to tie up, if they just so happened to remember a shred if detail from the night.

Fortunately, Dean created the illusion that he vacated the bar on his own merit, using the excuse that he would need to run home and change quickly, then informing Bobby of where they would meet. Bobby had been suspicious of that, and rightfully so. Too bad the guy is far too Hell bent on picking up Sam’s trail with any opportunity that he might get.

“He was really drunk one night. I told him that I would walk him home, and that I wasn’t leaving until I knew that he was all right. Somehow, the guy has this quality that makes you want to protect him. Didn’t really understand it, myself.”

Bobby snorts. “Yeah, that sounds like Sam, all right. The getting drunk part is a little unusual.”

Pulling a face, as if Dean just figured something out, he clicked his fingers. “That must be why he was such a lightweight.”

Shrugging, Bobby gestures towards the house, almost asking if it’s okay to knock. Dean nods non-commitally, leaving the choice up to him.

_They always take the bait._

Bobby braces himself, then raps on the door. Dean can imagine that the guy’s heart is in his throat right now, wondering who might answer that door—will his search finally be over?

Dean stays back a few paces, keeping his hands in his pockets, masking his joy that this will all be over soon, and the name Bobby Singer will _never_ go down in history for doing anything _great._

There’s cursing behind the door, someone sounding like they just woke up from a nap, keys crashing against the ground. Bobby is looking more and more hopeful, straining his ears to detect any signs that this could be Sam.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the door flies open, Sam’s eyes going wide when they land on Bobby, a dopy grin morphing his face, as he pulls the man into a bear-hug, winking at Dean over his shoulder, who is observing the scene playing out before him with little to no interest—he really just wants to get this over with, so he can get back to his original plans with Sam tonight. None of this reunion nonsense that makes him want to gag.

Bobby returns the hug without preamble, clearly thinking that Sam must have missed him just as much. In the background, Dean acts uncomfortable from the scene, rubbing the back of his neck. When it seems like Dean might actually snap if this continues any longer, however, Sam quickly retracts himself.

“Bobby, what are you doing here?” he asks sincerely, like he has no idea why the man would turn up at his door, when nothing is wrong here.

“What do ya’ mean, idjit? I’ve been looking everywhere for you. You were reported missing, Sam. What have you been doing all this time?”

Sam starts _explaining_ that he had an episode a few months ago. A big one that he’s only just starting to recover from. He didn’t want to let anyone know, as he was worried that his credibility would be ruined. He went on to say that his Doctor advised that he attempt to get some normalcy in his life, hence the change of scenery and joining the night dwellers. Sam admits with a laugh that it’s still not really his thing, but he couldn’t allow Dean Winchester to control every single part of his life. Sending a look full of meaning Dean’s way, Sam adds that although he’ll never be normal, never have the chance to wake up in the morning, or fall asleep at night without thoughts of what happened to his Mother all those years ago, that it was time that he found some sort of peace with it.

Somewhere between the _explanation,_ Sam led Bobby into the house, inviting Dean in as well, offering to make him a coffee for his troubles, which Dean accepted, squeezing Sam’s ass subtly as he walked passed. Now, they’re all sat around the table, Sam informing Bobby of the things that he has done now that he has the time to do them. Oddly, not all of them are lies. Dean had rewarded his Sammy to a few trips lately, for being such a good boy, and always coming back to him. The way that Sam talks about their outings with adoration provokes a pulse of something in Dean’s stomach that he can’t catalogue for the life of him. It must just be one of those weird things that people feel sometimes. Yeah, that’s all it is. Not like Dean’s heart actually just skipped a beat when Sam beamed about the World’s Largest Toothpick, probably recalling what Dean had said when they stood before it.

_“Whatever. Mine’s bigger.”_

_“You can’t be serious?_ You _feel inadequate?”_

_“You’re asking for a slap, Sammy.”_

_“Maybe I want one, big boy.”_

Not getting that deposit back had been worth it. Yeah, totally fucking worth it, especially with the way that Sam had been fidgeting on the front seat the whole ride home.

“Are ya’ coming back, boy?” Bobby questions after Sam finally finishes detailing the significance of seeing the _Aurora Borealis,_ something that they did not see. Of course, if Sam really wants to go there, then they’ll book a plane after this is all dealt with.

Sam lowers his shoulders, happy expression replaced with one of reluctance, hands clasped under the table, wringing over and over, _pushing_ off the unease.

_God, I wanna fuck you so hard right now, Sammy._

Dean stills himself. This is Sam’s show right now, and he’s going to get a standing ovation at the end of this. It’s times like these that Dean deeply regrets holding himself back. He should have just nabbed Sammy when he wanted him that first time. By now, they would be so much further along in the grand scheme of things.

“Bobby, I don’t know if I can come back. I’ve been away too long. Plus, if I go back, then I’ll just fall into my obsession of tracking down that mother-fucker—“

“It won’t be like that, Son. Hell, I’m relieved that you’re okay. For the longest time, I’ve thought that _that_ psycho had you in his clutches, or worse...,” Bobby trails off, and Dean wonders if this redneck fucker would be so open about his hate towards him if he knew that the Bogey Man was standing right behind him, trying his hardest not to rip Bobby’s throat out.

The only thing that is actually stopping Dean from killing this guy are the looks that Sam keeps sending him. Ones of reassurance. Ones that say that he doesn’t mean anything that he’s saying—that it’s all the opposite. What if Sam has been playing him all this time? There’s no way that near the beginning of this venture, Dean would let anyone that could possibly help Sam, near his baby. He wouldn’t have been able to trust that something wouldn’t happen.

What the fuck changed? For all Dean knows, this could go South in a heartbeat. Sam could have been conspiring against him from the start. Is that what’s going on here? Is Sam going to turn on him? Would he do that after all they’ve been through? Would he be that ungrateful? Would he. . .really _break_ Dean’s heart like that?

Dean has put _far_ too much into this to let something like that happen.

“Hey, uh. Sorry to interrupt this lovely reunion, but I need to take a leak. Mind showing me where the bathroom is, dude?”

Sam frowns pensively, permitting Bobby to help himself to whatever he can find, and that he’ll be back soon. The two younger men pass through to the other room, faking small talk as Sam _shows_ Dean to his own bathroom, ambling up the stairs, making a right at the top, leading to a stark white door that holds a mountain of memories.

Before Dean comprehends what he’s doing, he’s shoving Sam forcibly into the room, aligning him with the door. There’s anger written all over his face—hurt blended into the mix. He can see the walls breaking through the portals of Sam’s eyes. This isn’t something that happens to him. People don’t see this side of him. This side of Dean isn’t supposed to _exist._ This only has breath in its lungs because of the son of a bitch staring worriedly at him. Why does he get to do that? _Stare_ at Dean like that, causing his _heart_ to do odd things. Things that don’t process in Dean’s mind. He hasn’t got a scratch on him, but he _hurts_ so much, like a thousand knives digging into his skin, pinpointing all of the nerves that send his victims into turmoil.

_Make it stop._

Hard bouts of air are leaving him in waves, his lungs feeling as though they’re about to implode from the immense pressure on the delicate tissue. Rugged hands gripping broad shoulders shake with the effort to stay upright, knees barely avoiding collapsing in on themselves. What is this feeling? It’s so strong, that Dean can’t force himself to choke it down. Every part of him aches with desperation; want; need; betrayal; hope… Dean needs that reassurance that this isn’t the end for them. He can’t lose Sam. He won’t. That’s not happening.

Not while Dean _still_ has air in his lungs.

Sam is calling his name softly, but with an edge. He can’t hear him. He’s falling to his knees without permission, tearing the button on Sam’s denims with the utter adrenaline thrumming through his fingertips. Ignoring the gasp of shock from Sam, Dean yanks the black boxer-briefs concealing Sam’s manhood, instantly securing the heated flesh in his hand, sealing his mouth around the head, drawing the sleep warm flesh all the way to the back of his throat. Sam’s hardening in his mouth, and Dean doesn’t pull back. He hooks his strong arms around the back of Sam’s knees, tugging Sam off balance, trailing the moist cock as Sam rests his ass against the ground.

Dean shifts himself forward, getting a better position between Sam’s now spread legs, moaning around the length in his mouth. There’s spit falling through the spaces in his lips, but Dean could not care less about that right now. Sam won’t leave him. He can’t. Not when what they have is something so special.

“Fuck… Oh, shit. Dean,” Sam curses, eyes falling closed, as Dean gives a particularly hard suck that rocks Sam’s entire frame. Dean forces Sam’s entire length down his throat, gagging on the sheer size. It hurts, but this is making Sam feel good, and that’s all he needs to do right now.

Dean can tell that Sam is already getting close. He pulls back briefly, pinning Sam with a focused glance. “Shove my head down. Fuck my face, and come down my throat, then bend your knees back,” he orders, receiving Sam’s cock into his mouth again. Another impatient look aimed at the man seems to do the trick, as Sam’s fingers hesitantly take grasp of Dean’s short locks of hair, slowly guiding Dean all the way down, throwing his head back in pleasure as the sensitive head of his throat tickles the walls of Dean’s throat. He moves Dean’s head up and down at first, not sure if he might be punished for this later. When he can see that Dean apparently is trying to say something to him without using words, Sam bucks his hips up, pressure building along the length of his cock, until pulses of euphoria filter through him, depositing essence into Dean’s willing mouth.

Swallowing everything as it comes, Dean cleans his baby’s shaft on the way back up, sliding off the end with a slight pop. Sam shucks his jeans off with breakneck speed, as Dean unbuckles his belt, hurriedly freeing his stiff cock. As instructed, Sam pulls his knees back as far as he can, shuddering with anticipation. Eager hands settle just under Sam’s ass, lifting him slightly, bringing the dusky, pink hole closer to Dean’s view. Sam moans in approval, when a projectile of spit covers his hole, lapped up by a seemingly ravenous tongue, the slippery appendage penetrating his insides with an ease that is nothing but admirable.

_Later. We don’t have time for this._

As quick as humanly possible, Dean lines the head of his cock with Sam’s hole, and slides in all the way to the base on the first thrust, mouthing at Sam’s neck, as he starts to undulate his hips, pounding down into Sam’s willing body.

“Ugh, Dean, I—,”

Dean silences him with a brutal kiss, involving tongue, lips and teeth, rough and needy in the same respect as Dean’s hard length drilling into Sam’s body stretching the younger male wide.

There’s not a chance in hell that he’s going to last long. Sam has already produced another hard-on, due to the plethora of stimulation to his prostate, that Dean is nailing with every thrust of his hips.

He doesn’t know how to say this in words. This is the only way for him to pass on how he feels. How else is he supposed to get this across? Dean wouldn’t know where to start. What if Sam doesn’t understand him? What if Sam is still playing some sort of game? Has he just been using Dean this entire time—

“Stop thinking, Dean. I’m going to kill him. Or you’re going to kill him. Nothing comes between us, okay?” Sam implores, tone stricken with emotion, starting to understand just what this is all about. Dean’s body ripples with something foreign, when Sam raises the bottom of his shirt, displaying Dean’s mark on him. His name. _His_ name, and no one else’s. “Dean, ugh. I love you. Not gonna leave you. Not now, not ever.”

Dean’s thrusts increase in intensity. Sam loves him. He’s said that before. He can’t be lying. . . Dean would be able to tell, surely. He can’t be that far off his game, that he wouldn’t notice something that he practically does for a living. Gently padding his fingers against the scarred flesh, Dean gazes longingly into Sam’s eyes, trying to convey what he’s feeling in this moment—something that he just can’t express in words.

Sam’s hand flattens over his own, their eyes locked in a heated exchange, bodies perspiring from the rigorous activity, Sam’s anal cavity clenching around Dean’s swollen length, begging for his gift of life. Dean knows that he’s on the edge, letting their eye contact drop as the seconds begin to feel like hours, slowing his thrusts to a languid roll, feeling each and every drag of Sam’s fluttering entrance against the meat of his dick.

“I know, Dean. You don’t have to say it. I know.”

As if that was all Dean needed to hear, he thrusts in a dozen more times, throwing all of his worth into it, Sam’s hole spasming around him, as they both find their imminent release.

“Sammy. . .Sam. . .Sammy!” Dean exclaims, riding out the rest of his orgasm, melding their mouths together in a final hungry kiss, fingers dipping in the pool of come on Sam’s stomach. He guides it to their sealed lips, reclining his head back for a moment, to slip his come-coated fingers into his mouth. He retracts his softened cock from Sam’s puffy crack, inserting two fingers, gathering up his own essence, then spreads it over Sam’s tongue, re-joining their mouths together, mixing each other’s juices between their mouths, combining the natures of their DNA—creating something that is _purely_ them.

Retracting from their exchange, Dean pushes a lock of Sam’s hair behind his ear, lips parting, then clamping shut, still unable to say something that he can feel in his blood, something that he’s been breathing for longer than he can gather.

_I love you, Sammy._

It’s easier to utter the words in the isolated space of his mind. Ordinarily, he has no trouble running his mouth. Not this time. Feelings aren’t something that he’s ever been good with. They’re new. They’re insufferable, and he sometimes wishes he still possessed the ability to not care at all about Sam. Would he even want to? Dean’s not sure, and he quite honestly doesn’t want to live in a world where Sam isn’t the focus of his undivided attention.

“We should deal with our problem,” Sam suggests, holding Dean’s head in his hands, circling his thumb in a soothing motion.

Nodding distractedly, Dean rises to his feet, re-buckling his belt, wiping his hand on a nearby towel. He stretches his arm out for Sam, pulling him into his frame in one swift tug, gripping Sam’s bottom lip between his teeth, gently easing along the tender flesh until its ultimately released.

“Sammy, I. . .,”

“I know. I love you, too.”

“Let’s go get rid of our problem, then. Pull your pants up, first,” Dean mutters, motioning with his head that he’s going to get started. Creeping down the stairs, Dean focuses his deep green eyes on the man sitting at his table, holding his cup of coffee to his lips, shoulders tenses with worry. Softening his steps, Dean stalks his way into the kitchen, feeling out his prey. Temporarily halting his heart, Dean ensnares his arm around Bobby’s neck, adding the required amount of pressure to cut off his oxygen, easily disabling the wondering hands attempting to find purchase in forcing Dean’s experienced paws from his person.

Dean counts down in his mind, waiting for the warm body to stop seizing. After a hearty struggle, nails aiming to penetrate the material of his jacket, chubby knuckles applying as much weight as they can muster into Dean’s bones—Bobby loses the will to fight, body going limp from the choke hold.

Dull noise behind him alerts Dean that Sam has pulled himself together. He throws a smirk over his shoulder, dragging Bobby out of the seat. San gets with the program instantly, moving around the other side of the limp body to take some of the weight off of Dean. Together, they carry Bobby’s unconscious form down to the torture room. After depositing him by the radiator, handcuffs tightened around fleshy wrists, Sam sets himself up on the chair, grinning wickedly as Dean traps him with the rope, bending forward to steal a biting kiss.

“Work that magic, baby.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

“Good boy,” Dean almost purrs, walking over to the sink. He picks up the bucket, splashing a few portions of water, cutting off the flow when he deems the amount to be sufficient. Striding over to _their_ captive, Dean throws the cold liquid over his form, flinging the bucket against the wall. As Bobby starts to regain consciousness, Sam starts up his act, desperation apparent in his tone, bonds rubbing along his skin.

“Don’t hurt him. Please, he has nothing to do with this,” Sam begs, shining pleading eyes on the _killer._

“Sam? Sam, what’s going on?” Bobby groans, narrowing his eyes when he sees Sam tied to a chair, the bartender hovering over him with a knife. Bobby moves to get up, noticing the cuffs keeping him locked in place when he fails to do so.

Dean draws his blade across the side of Sam’s cheek agonizingly slow, loving that look of pure, un—bridled hate bleeding through Sam’s hazel eyes. Dean’s not seen that look for a long time, and it used to make him rock hard in his jeans in a matter of seconds. Knowing that Sam can play this part so well makes him excited for future roleplays. God, he’s going to have so much fun with that. Sam is all he needs to be happy, really.

“Son of a bitch! Get your hands off of him,” Bobby yells, shackles rattling with the effort to break free.

“Oh, I’ll get to you in a minute, Bobby Singer,” Dean replies calmly, lapping up the blood from Sam’s cheek, making a noise of appreciation.

“Who are you?!”

Dean grins sickeningly, sliding his hand down Sam’s front, caressing the material, wondering if Sam’s still keeping up that look of hatred.

“Dean Winchester. What do you want with _my_ Sammy?”

 


	24. Without A Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby needs to find a way to get out of this mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've done 3 chapters in the space of 2 days! Proud of myself--woo! Not that I have a notebook/tablet, it's just so much easier to get things done. :D

Bobby’s blood turns ice cold in an instant, fear consuming him, with little to no restraint. Why didn’t he realise that sooner? True, he only heard a voice. A voice that can’t be forgotten. So, why did he fail to notice that when he was at the bar? God, was he that wrapped up in taking every chance that he can get to find Sam, that he couldn’t even see the infamous Dean Winchester staring him in the face? What is he supposed to do now? He’s in the Lion’s den, and he doesn’t have a chance of getting free. Not when this mad man is his captor. Through the fear clawing at his marrow, Bobby registers the way that Dean is offering Sam affection, and recalls the other part of Dean’s words, following the revelation of his name. He asked him what he wanted with _his_ Sammy. As if the very idea that anyone can talk to the boy, let alone take him away, is utterly ludicrous.

Swallowing down his anxiety for the time being, Bobby manages to aim a quizzical eyebrow at the deranged lunatic currently licking a stripe along Sam’s neck, the younger man shuddering in disgust. So, what Sam told him earlier was a complete pack of lies. Dean must have given him those instructions, levelled with some sort of threat if Sam gave a single thing away. Bobby can’t even begin to imagine what the young man must have gone through all this time. His suspicions had been right from the start. Sam did go out on his own searching for Dean. He did get caught, and this is the result of that.

“Sam, I told you not to go after him on your own! Look what good that did you?” Bobby grumbles, glaring at Dean.

“I’m sorry, Bobby,” Sam says forlornly, holding his neck as far away from the mad man as he can in the position that he’s in.

“You knew that this could have happened. Why didn’t ya’ try to contact someone?”

Dean yawns loudly, licking his lips. “Sorry, buddy. Sam doesn’t answer to you. And if you like your tongue in your mouth, I _suggest_ that you stop speaking to my belongings,” he offers, leading Sam’s head into an aggressive kiss, impressed with the way that Sam makes it seem like he’s reluctantly accepting the action, minimal tongue action in the exchange.

“I’m gonna be sick.”

Immediately, Dean turns his eyes on _their_ captive, just daring him to say anything else. Deciding to have some fun with this, Dean cuts the bonds on Sam’s arms, instructing him to rise from the seat. Sam does, shoulders tense with apprehension. Bobby’s eyes widen when Dean informs Sam that he _knows_ what he _has_ to do here. What the hell could that be? Dean slips the knife into Sam’s hand, and Bobby wonders if the guy just made a fatal mistake—disappointment in the edler’s eyes, when Sam doesn’t take the gift that he has been given and turn on their captor. Is Dean _that_ much of a threat, that he’s still impossible to kill, even when he’s defenceless?

“Please, don’t make me do this. I’ll do anything you want, I swear,” Sam begs, tears gathering in his eyes, ready to make their journey down the plains of his cheeks.

“This is what I want you to do. And anything else, you don’t have a choice in the matter, baby. So get to it.”

Bobby gasps. “What does he have over you, Sam? To make you do this—there has to be something that he’s holding over your head,” he babbles, eyes trained on the knife in Sam’s hands, glinting from the minimal light in the room.

Allowing the tears to fall, Sam pulls up the end up his shirt, revealing his shame—the tag that will never leave his skin, not without a skin—graph, that is. Bobby stares in shock at the carved lettering, wondering for a second time just what sort of torture Sam has endured in his time here.

“That doesn’t mean that you have to do what he says—“

“I’ve killed people, Bobby. Even if I get away from here, their blood is on my hands.”

Bobby feels his heart breaking for the man that he has come to know so well, cares for in a way a Father cares about their son. Bobby didn’t have the privilege of having kids. He lost his wife to a lengthy battle with cancer before they had the chance to create a miracle. After her death, he couldn’t find it in himself to settle down with anyone else. No one could compare to her. Bobby understands that Sam’s not his son, and he hasn’t known him _that_ long, but he just can’t help himself from having this overwhelming paternal instinct for the boy. He wants to keep him safe. Wishes that he had the strength to protect Sam. Unfortunately, he’s just a forensics expect. He’s never had to use his fists—just his mind. A haunting feeling penetrates his stomach, with the realization that this might be the end for him. There’s nothing that he can do to get out of this.

“That wasn’t your fault, Sam,” he assures the distressed man, subconsciously shuffling as far back away from the knife as he can. “You don’t have to do this. We can find a way to get you out of this. I promi—“

“Sammy doesn’t need your empty promises, _Bobby,”_ Dean sneers, wrapping his arms around Sam’s middle, pulling him back against his chest. “Actually, I’m pretty sure he’s trying his damndest to not slash your throat, and end this quickly.”

“ _What?_ ” Bobby inquires, incredulous.

Dean nuzzles the back of Sam’s neck, peppering kisses along the patches of skin. “Tell him the truth, Sammy.”

In a heartbeat, Sam’s act drops, almost feral grin replacing the look of dread on his face, exterior no longer shaking with nerves, malice seeping into hazel eyes that—as ironic as it seems—have never appeared purer; awake— _alive._ Sam connects his free hand with Dean’s around his front, leaning back into the soft kisses along his nape, relishing the attention. It’s no secret that Dean is one possessive nut-job, who can’t seem to keep his hands off of Sam whenever they have company.

“The truth is, Bobby. I’ve never been happier.”

Bobby blanches. “What has he done to you, son?”

“Made me into something that I actually like.”

“You can’t mean that. You can’t really want to do this.”

Sam laughs darkly, stalking towards him. “Oh, but I do. And I _really_ want to,” he mutters, scraping the blade through the hair on Bobby’s face, watching a few sheds floating to the ground.

“Sam, please. Don’t do this.”

Bobby can’t see the light in Sam’s eyes, as if it were all shrouded by the darkness. The man that he used to know doesn’t exist anymore.

“Even I did feel some sort of urge to save you—which I don’t, Dean would just kill you anyway. Don’t worry. Not that I care, but I’ll make it quick and painless for you. Besides, we got our rocks off yesterday, so there’s no need to draw this out. To be honest, I’m so bored right now I could fall asleep. I’ll stay awake, though. After this is over, Dean’s gonna give it to me good. Like we planned, until I got that notification that you’d tracked down some video from the club. I’ve destroyed that, by the way. There’s not going to be any need for it, after all.”

Biting back the pain that comes with those words, Bobby narrows his eyes at Dean. “What did you do to him?”

Dean and Sam share a laugh.

“I woke him up.”

“He woke me up.”

The sentence in unison sends shivers through Bobby’s frame, knowing that now this is going to be the end for him. This can’t be over. There has to be something here that he can do—someway that he can get out of this, without dying—preferably. What can he do, though? It’s only the three of them in this room, and they don’t even seem to care that he’s here, either way—maybe he can use that. Maybe he can find a way to get them focused on themselves, and in the meantime, look for a way out of these cuffs. Bobby gets the impression that they can’t wait to jump each other’s bones, so he’s going to have to remove any shred of attention aimed at himself.

How to pull that off, is another question, entirely.

“So, you guys are, what, together?” Bobby asks, acting aloof.

“You got a problem with that?” Dean returns, just as careless.

“Not a problem, no. I just don’t see it.”

Dean takes the bait, off his game, due to just how much Sam is turning him on right now—this is becoming a serious problem.

“I will fuck him right in front of your face.”

Sam shudders with delight at the implication, cock hardening in his jeans. He’s already come twice in the space of an hour, but he is so ready to have Dean’s pulsing heat lodged in his body again.

“You wouldn’t.”

Smirking, Dean wrenches Sam’s pants down, urging the younger man to bend over. “You want a side view, or a full-frontal. With the side view, you have the pleasure of watching my fat cock plow his ass. Full-frontal, you get the added benefit of seeing all the faces of desire Sammy makes when my cock pounds his sweet spot,” Dean presents Bobby with the choice, already pulling his cock out of its confines.

When Bobby makes a face, and Dean goes to turn him to the side, Sam lifts himself up, completely ignoring the fact that his hard cock is swinging between his legs, as he presses the blade up against Bobby’s throat.

“You tryin’ to pull one over on us, Bobby? Think that by distracting Dean enough,x that you’ll get away? That’s not happening. You’ll tell someone, and Dean will be in danger. And then _I’ll_ be your problem.”

Dean frowns. “Mother-fucker,” he snaps. “End him, Sammy.”

Sam tightens his grip, ready to glide the knife along the weighty skin, when Bobby shouts.

“There are still people looking for you! I won’t say anything, I promise, Sam. You at least know that I don’t break promises. I can tell them that you’re safe—feed them that bullshit that you fed me. Please. . . This isn’t what your Mother would have wanted.”

Sensing the slightest hesitation in his Sammy, Dean rips Sam away from the elder man, glaring heatedly over Sam’s shoulder at Bobby. He shushes Sam, holding him against his chest, trousers still around their ankles, but not caring. He assures Sam that his Mother would be proud that he’s become so strong, that she would be glad that he’s so independent, and as smart as anything. Sam has gone quiet in his arms, his Mother still a slightly touchy subject for the man—crumbling him completely near the beginning. This is nowhere near as bad as it used to be, but he it can still be a pain to deal with.

He should just kill this idiot. He should because he upset his baby. Nevertheless, the presence of this reject is making Sam uncomfortable now—making him doubt himself, and Dean simply can’t have that.

Making a quick decision, he lobs the cuffs keys over to the man, voice so low, and full of threat as he says, “Get out of here. I don’t ever want to see you again. If people come knocking, I will escape. And then I will kill you. Slowly. Painfully. Mercilessly. This is a onetime deal, so get the fuck out of here, and don’t you _ever_ talk to _my_ Sammy again.”

Bobby hurriedly unlocks the cuffs, ignoring the urge to rub his wrists, as he barrels up the stairs, slamming the door shut behind him. He just wants to get out of here. Far away, and never look back. Never again cross paths with _that_ psychopath. He feels sorry for Sam. Bobby really does, but he doesn’t see any salvation for the kid anymore. There’s no way that he can come back from this. There’s nothing left of the soul that used to occupy his body.

A single tear falls, as the front door closes behind him. He can’t believe that he met Dean Winchester and survived. There’s not a chance that he’ll say anything to anyone. He’s heard about what Dean is capable of—read about it in detail. That promise is as good as anything. If he utters a single word to someone that could maybe do something to help Sam, even if the man doesn’t want saving, he will lose his life. That’s just the way it is.

He’s not going to put himself through that.

Bobby forces himself to move as fast as he possibly can, wanting to be out of sight of that place. He has no idea what they’re up to now that he’s gone, and he doesn’t really want to know.

What he does want, though, is a hard drink.


	25. Not-Sammy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuff happens. I'm not giving anything away for this one. Sorry, I want to SHOCK YOU ALLLLLLLL!!!! >8D

Sam spits as much of the copious amounts of blood hibernating in his throat as he can on to the floor. He knows that Dean doesn’t appreciate when he does that, and he knows that he’s being punished right now, and therefore should be more careful. Sam could care less what Dean thinks at this moment. He’s pissed. _Royally._ And he’s going to use it for as long as he can, fighting for control of his sanity with every last breath that he can muster. It took Bobby reminding him of the reason that he fought for himself every day, to finally enable him to get a grasp on his bearings. For what feels like an eternity, Sam has been keeping himself locked away in the recesses of his mind, refusing to watch the proceedings before his eyes. What kind of monster has this man turned him in to, to the point where he nearly sleighed the closest thing to a Father that he’s ever had? Sam rigorously ignores the torrent of disgusting imagery in his mind—watching himself doing all sorts of horrible things to those poor people makes him want to empty the whole of his stomach, but he resists. That was not him. That can’t have been him. The man in the memory may have the same body, the same hair, the same face—they are _not_ him, however.

Hours have passed since he partially came to his senses, nestled between Dean’s legs, his back to the older man’s chest, apparently being soothed. Dean had been whispering he was here, and that nothing was going to happen to him as long as Dean was around, protecting him—watching out for him. Sam had had the dignity to snort derisively, which seemed to make Dean tense apprehensively, arms unfolding from their place, head craning around to get a look at Sam’s face, which was when Sam felt the weight of the knife in his hand, flesh convulsing with triumph, as he rammed the blade into Dean’s thigh as hard as he could, leaping up from his spot, narrowly avoiding a heavy foot to the back of his shin, as he righted his jeans in seconds flat, staring distantly at the door, wondering if Bobby managed to get away, or if he just imagined that Dean let him go.

Dean had ripped the knife from his flesh without even flinching, glaring menacingly at Sam, his eyes asking all of the questions that he couldn’t find the time to.

“Did you miss me?” Sam had taunted, narrowing his eyes in challenge.

“Sweetheart, I think it’s adorable that you really think you have the upper-hand now.”

Giving credit where it’s due, Sam confesses that Dean hadn’t been wrong in his assumptions. Sam had believed that he then had a chance to get out of there—to kill the smirking son of a bitch, and be done with this crap. For all of his big talk, he hadn’t managed to fight the psycho off, and he failed to stop the man from restraining him, restricting Sam from being able to do anything other than move his head.

This is the position that he finds himself in right now, as Dean flogs his back, ripping the skin apart with each stroke. Sam knows that he doesn’t have the strength to get out of this. He also doesn’t want to surrender himself again. Clenching his jaw, Sam’s frame rocks, wincing at the echo of the crack against his back, sensing the scarlet rivers running down his flank starting to dry up.

“You suddenly grow a conscience, Sammy? Really? This hasn’t been you this entire time? You didn’t get _anything_ out of this? Out of _us_?” Dean growls, betrayal thick in his voice as he brings the flogger down even harder on Sam’s back, too angry to comprehend that this is going to need a lot of aftercare to fix.

Sam’s back arches of its own accord, his body screaming along with his lungs at the pain exploding all over his limbs. In the time that he’s been here, he’s taken more life-threatening beatings, but that doesn’t mean that they hurt any less. His muscles are in consistent agony—bonds too tight to get any wiggle room, and impact too strict to allow Sam a chance to push the pain to the back of his mind.

Suddenly, Dean stops hitting him. If Sam listens attentively enough, he can hear the sound of the other man’s breathing. It’s shallow, lacking confidence, now filled with aggression and downright betrayal. He wonders why that makes him feel bad. He shouldn’t feel bad at all. This psycho ruined his life—there’s absolutely no reason for Sam to feel sorry for him. Not when Dean is the cause for everything bad that has happened in Sam’s existence. Why should he feel guilty, when he doesn’t even know what he’s feeling guilty for in the first place?

Blood drips from the end of Sam’s chin, joining its colour palette on the ground below his feet. There’s probably more to come. What, Sam doesn’t know. Dean must be taking a short break to figure out what he’s going to be moving onto next. After all, this is the only way that it has been between them from the beginning of this _venture._ Dean enjoys inflicting pain on his body. That’s just the way that it is, and it’s not going to be changing any time soon. Sam can’t make out much of what happened while he had been _out,_ and he’s grateful for that. The snippets of information that his subconscious readily supplies him with makes his skin crawl—watching himself torture those people for the joy it all, the _rush._ At no point has Dean stopped using Sam as his personal punching bag, though, so what good had been hiding behind the wall, and keeping the dark at bay?

Sam takes a few seconds to register that Dean is standing in front of him, flogger nowhere to be seen in his hand, and a look of despair marring his features. Sam catalogues the gauze wrapped around Dean’s thigh, red dye seeping through the fabric. At least he got something done before he ended up shit creek.

“Give me back my Sammy.”

A puzzled eyebrow raises at the command. “What?”

“You heard me. Give him back. _Now,”_ Dean reiterates sternly, icy glare in place.

“What the hell are you talking about, you psycho?!”

Dean gently nods his head, jutting his chin out. He licks his pillow-y lips, pressing a hand against Sam’s naked chest, a smug grin replacing the look of scorn as Sam’s body subconsciously leans into the touch. Testing the water that bit extra, Dean stretches out his fingertips, permitting each one to cover various strips of warm skin, provoking an increase in heartrate from the younger man.

Satisfied, he begins. “Your body responds to my touch. Not because it’s in pain. Purely because it _wants_ it.”

“There’s this thing called muscle memory—you should really look it up, asshole,” Sam snarls, wishing he could lean his body away, although it seems to have a mind of its own, almost purring in delight form the briefest of touches.

“It’s not the same in this situation, not-Sam,” Dean replies, not looking at him.

“Then what is it, genius?” Sam drawls sarcastically, ashamed by the responses that his treacherous body is having to Dean’s ministrations.

“You’re the Sammy that I wanted to fuck through the floor. The one I wanted to torcher. The one I wanted to hear beg. You’re not the Sammy that I dreamed of having one day. He’s _once again_ trapped inside your mind. You’ve taken him from me, and I will get him back by any means necessary.”

Something in Dean’s monologue captures Sam’s attention. “Once again?”

“Yes. The reason I was so drawn to you when you were a kid, is because I could see a lot of myself in you. Pun intended, sweetheart. I saw the way that you looked at the other kids in your school, wondering what it would be like to see the veins on their arms splitting open, bleeding out in front of you. It’s probably the reason that you never got laid _before_ me. You would have been terrified that you might _snap,_ and actually act on the fantasies that you’d been having in your head. I know because I went through the same thing, only I never crawled inside my head, and became something weak and pitiful.”

“Truth is, not-Sammy, the real you is the one that likes the smell of blood. The one that likes the thrill of watching the light in someone’s eyes fade. The one that is free and open, not weighed down by the responsibilities of life. He’s free. He’s beautiful, and he’s _mine._ So give him back to me. Don’t take away the only happiness that Sammy has ever felt. He’s not afraid anymore. He has me to look after him. He loves me, and I…” Dean hesitates, swallowing the lump in his throat, as he forces the words out. “Love him. I love _him_ , not-Sammy. Don’t punish him by keeping him away from me. He needs me. More than you want to admit.”

Sam is utterly thrown for a loop. What the fuck is this guy talking about? He’s got it backwards, right? None of that can be true. Sam doesn’t want to hurt anyone—and why does he keep referring to him as not-Sammy, like that’s going to make a shred of difference? What is Dean hoping to accomplish with that? Does he think that _that_ part of Sam is going to come crawling back to him if he Dean mistakes his identity? Sam hasn’t got a clue what to think about all of this. It’s clear that this isn’t something that Dean’s rehearsed—wait, Dean’s in love with him? That can’t be right. All he does is torture him. Hurt him. _Scar_ him. Use him. _Rape_ him. People that are in love don’t do that. They just don’t. Not unless it’s some kind of fetish, but that’s beside the point.

Without his consent, Dean moulds his body against Sam’s, hot tongue sliding up his neck, cleaning the blood stains, teeth promoting the skin to darken, contrasting with the pale flesh, due to blood-loss. “Come back to me, Sammy. Don’t let not-Sammy control you again. He’s not who you want to be—we both know that,” Dean prompts, smoothing his fingers down Sam’s front, curling around his torso to reach a plump glute, squeezing the fatty-tissue with hunger.

Sam’s hit with an awash of memories from the time outside of the dark, seeing himself being spooned _by_ Dean; passionately kissing _with_ Dean; watching the stars _with_ Dean; laughing at nothing _with_ Dean; having sex on top of a dead body _with_ Dean; telling Dean that he _loves_ him; receiving pleasure _from_ Dean without being asked to _return_ the favour; getting massaged _by_ Dean; watching Dean lose control, revealing the truth about his past; comforting Dean; holding Dean; kissing Dean; sucking Dean; riding Dean; taking _all_ of Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean!

“Get your hands off of me!”

Denial. He’s going to cling to denial on this one. None of what just flashed before his eyes can be anything other than falsified imagery, spurred on through Dean’s wandering hands, and manipulative words. All Sam has to do now is convince himself of this. Solidify the fact that these sudden feelings are nothing more than a delusion of grandeur. Push these _desires_ to the furthest corner of Hell, and cleanse his soul of all this grime that writhes in pleasure at the idea of contaminating Sam down to his core.

Instead of backing off like Sam wishes he would, Dean only becomes more insistent, pushing all of his buttons, claiming that the _real_ Sammy is still in there somewhere, and that he needs to break through those walls and make his way back to him, to not let _not­-_ Sammy oppress, or convince him that he is nothing other than beautiful, as the psychopath focuses the skin of his lips on _not-_ Sam’s chest, worrying the responsive flesh, lapping up the perspiration, as if it were heroine—strong and addictive.

Sam’s pulse races from the concentration on his body, experienced hands working him over in ways that Sam could never imagine, his teeth sinking into his lip without volition, biting back a moan, as to not give Dean the satisfaction of knowing that he’s getting to him.

“Sammy is calling out to me through you. He wants to be set free, not-Sam. Just let him out. He’s finally comfortable with who is, and it’s cruel on your part to take that away from him, don’t you think? You’re the goody-two-shoes, the one that holds open doors for a hoard of strangers, even if none of them say thank you. You have to be _on_ all the time. Sammy is the only person that makes me feel anything other than bloodlust. . . I promise that I’ll treat him right. Just give him back to me,” Dean almost pleads, punctuating his lasts words with a kiss to the space opposite to Sam’s heart.

“You killed my Mother. I owe you nothing,” Sam replies coldly, turning his head as far away from the man as he can, ignoring the discomfort in his neck.

Dean rolls his eyes, ambling around Sam to fetch his blade from the floor. “Fine, you can ignore my words all you want, but _Sammy_ won’t be able to ignore this,” he states with finality and confidence, holding his hand up to Sam’s eye-level, as he draws the tip along his palm, parting the skin, tears of red leaking from his hand, stirring something in Sam’s stomach, the hidden fumes coated in a sweet, metallic aroma that prompts Sam’s nose to twitch with anticipation.

“Sammy can’t resist the smell of my blood, not-Sammy. He’s practically a fucking vampire. A hot, sexy vampire,” Dean mutters with a rumbling laugh, pressing his hand against Sam’s mouth, tutting when Sam clenches his lips closed, refusing to let himself get a taste. “Honestly, I prefer the blood just below the groin. Tastes so fucking sweet, and the noises that Sammy makes when I fuck him with my fingers at the same time is to die for,” he enunciates, smearing the flow of his blood across Sam’s closed mouth, knowing that it’s only a matter of time before the temptation to sample becomes all too much for _his_ Sammy.

The smell curling around Sam’s nostrils is making him salivate, and thrum with _want._ This can’t be right. He’s never shown an interest in drinking blood—this is insane. Then, why does he really want to lick his lips? Why is it getting harder and harder to not run his tongue along his bottom lip, and feel the burst of taste coursing through him? What the hell has happened to him? Sam fights against his instincts, already knowing that he might lose this battle—the end is fucking nigh feeling appropriate in this instance. It’s almost as if he doesn’t want to battle anymore. His body is screaming at him to accept the treat that he’s being offered with gratitude. That would be giving in, and he can’t allow himself to do that. Not when he has come this far, after isolating himself for so long, completely losing sight of himself, just because he hadn’t been willing to handle it anymore.

Sam just didn’t want to _feel._

“Come on, Sammy. Taste it. I know you can’t fight this for long. Beat not-Sammy into submission and get your ass back to me!”

A full-body shudder surges through the younger man, his senses heightening. Pure _want_ is taking over now, and he’s licking his lips, disregarding the fact that this is going to ruin him, because he _wants._ Sam swirls his tongue around his mouth, getting every drop that he can, moaning for more. Dean feeds it to him, calling him his good boy as he sucks the skins opening like it’s the greatest treat in the world.

Sam feels like he’s losing his mind, lost in the heady scent of the blood filling his mouth, and caressing his nose. Dean pulls back his hand, running his hand through Sam’s sweaty hair for a beat of time, before lowering himself until his head is even with Sam’s thigh. Sam watches as Dean draws the blade up, and breaches the hard muscle, instantly sealing his lips over the wound, sucking violently, groaning in satisfaction as Sam’s ruby cream travels down his throat, vacant hands palming Sam’s ass, kneading the flesh, delicately stroking the furled hole, still slick from earlier activities, when Bobby had still been here—God this day has been a complete disaster.

When Dean’s finger sinks into his entrance, Sam’s hips twitch, face contorting in pleasure as he moans. He’s losing this fight. He can feel it from the tips of his hair, to the soles of his feet. That blood did something to him, and Dean draining the essence from his thigh is causing arousal to bleed through his pores, the heat in his belly so strict with desire that it almost hurts. It’s too hard to keep up this restraint—he just wants to let go of all of his inhibitions, and just surrender all of himself to Dean.

Dean increases his efforts, staring up at Sam from the inside of the younger man’s thigh, showcasing the blood dripping down his chin as he laps and drinks it up, emerald eyes ablaze with so much lust that they resemble the pinnacle of a solar eclipse. Everything is just too much, and yet not enough. . .

He can’t keep this up anymore. There’s just no more will left in his body. It’s all going to his head, swarming him from all sides. Sam doesn’t stand a chance of getting out of this. He’s just not _strong_ enough to resist these advances from Dean—the man has him eating out of the palm of his hands.

“Come back to me, Sammy,” Dean whispers against Sam’s open wound, loud enough for Sam to hear, and it’s as if a switch flicks on, a loud gasp leaving the man hanging above him, as all of the hate; the anger; the disgust leaves Sam’s body, leaving the animal that Dean raised in its wake.

He takes one last lick to Sam’s thigh, then stands to connect their lips in a claiming, bloody kiss that leaves the both of them breathless.

“You came back to me, Sammy,” Dean states when they break the kiss, staring deeply into Sam’s eyes, satisfied with the return of darkness in those ever-changing irises.

Sam smiles sweetly, nibbling Dean’s bottom lip. “Of course I did. I’ll always come back to you.”

Dean pinches Sam’s flesh between his teeth, talking with his actions to show just how glad he is that he didn’t lose him.

Little does Sam know that Dean is trying desperately to contain his grin. He does love Sam, and either one of them would have done—although he does prefer the obedient one, as things get done a lot faster—he can’t quite fathom that this actually worked. That he managed to convince Sam that he’s made of two different personalities. It worked like a fucking charm, however.

Sometimes, Dean ceases to amaze himself.

Really, what a beautiful work of manipulation.

_Bye, not-Sammy._

 

 

 


	26. Something Wicked: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean needs to find a way to make sure what happened last night never happens again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part of the story has three parts. The first is just a short teaser of what's to come.

Dean has gone to some very extreme lengths to ensure that _that_ never happens again. It never should have occurred in the first place, and Dean is pissed that that son of a bitch managed to awaken something in Sam, something that has been dormant since that first time Dean introduced the younger man to a life of killing. If he’s being honest with himself, Dean wouldn’t have been able to see that coming even if it were staring him in the face. That’s not supposed to happen, really. He’s scrubbed Sam’s mind for months—no force in this world should have prompted a relapse. The man should be irrevocably consumed in Dean. That’s how he planned it—to erase every shred of the previous Sam, break down his walls, and transform him into something worth having around.

Dean’s still slightly aroused, even after the fourth round of the night, finishing inside Sam’s tight, convulsing body—where he ultimately belongs. Seeing that pedigree hatred in Sam’s eyes again just did something to Dean. If it hadn’t been crucial that he turn everything on its head as soon as possible, then Dean would have loved to have played with the reluctant bitch for a short while. That’s not to say that he isn’t satisfied with having his Sammy around him, and Sam really gives it his all when Dean instructs him to act like he doesn’t want it. . . Still, the genuine artefact would have been the icing on the cake.

Without wasting any time, Dean had quickly enforced all the changes that Sam went through during the episodes of breaking the younger man, ripping him apart from the insides. He can’t afford to let _that_ happen again, otherwise he may just not be able to reverse it the next time around.

Sam is asleep in his arms, sated and merry. Dean would have followed him into sleep, but he can’t seem to shut his brain off at the moment, too busy comprising a list of things to do to prevent future actions from a certain trapped beast. The whole thing feels like a challenge to Dean. Can he keep up his control, and put an end to not-Sammy’s appearances once and for all? Or, will not-Sammy somehow secure the upper-hand, and finally take Dean out of the equation.

Well, he can’t have that now, can he? No, he needs to do something drastic. Something that will tie the two of them together for eternity. Something that will strengthen their bond beyond compare, and wash away any doubt from Sam’s mind that they are in his for the long-haul. That they will always be together, for better or worse. Until death do them part.

_Death do us, part, huh?_

It’s an idea. An idea is enough for the time being. Dean is positive that Sam wouldn’t hesitate to say yes. Sam would say yes to any of Dean’s requests. Dean shakes his head. This has to be something big. Something that will shock Sam into a state where he can only think, feel and breathe love for Dean. How will he pull this off? Dean doesn’t really have a romantic bone in his body. Sure, he’s acted like he gives a shit sometimes, to get what he wants. Is this what he wants, though? Taking a second to think about it, Dean tightens his arms around Sam’s body possessively, hearing those words from the Minister. . .

_I now pronounce you Husband and Husband. Mr, and Mr. Winchester._

Dean suddenly feels giddy with joy, layering soft kisses on Sam’s broad shoulders, tamping down the need to just claim Sam right-fucking-now. He has to wait. He has to stop himself. There will be time for all of that when they _consummate_ the marriage.

Shit, this is actually happening. Dean never thought that he would ask someone to marry him. He never imagined spending his life with anyone other than himself. Even if this is part of his plan to make not-Sammy a thing of the past, it’s really something that he actually _wants._ Who gives a fuck if it’s too _soon_ for them. He’s not waiting several years, falling even more hopelessly in love with Sam, when Dean already knows that he _is_ hopelessly in love with Sam, and nothing is going to persuade him otherwise.

It’s decided. He will propose to Sammy. All he has to do now is get a ring, find the best place to do it, and get this show on the road. Dean yawns, pulling Sam closer to his chest and nosing the back of his ear affectionately. If he’s going to come up with an awesome proposal, he needs to get his rest.

_Something wicked. . ._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURRRRRPRRRRRRIIIIIIISSSSSEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!


	27. Something Wicked: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're both getting restless. It's been too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT! NOT THAT IT'S ENDING SOON--THERE'S STILL A LOT TO GO OVER YET BETWEEN THE BOYS--I HAVE FOUR DIFFERENT ENDINGS THAT I CAN MAKE HAPPEN.
> 
> TWO INVOLVE DEATH OF THE BOYS.   
> THE OTHER TWO INVOLVE THEM LIVING.
> 
> POLL-----BASED ON YOUR ANSWERS, I'LL GET STARTED ON THE BUILD UP TO EITHER ENDING. 
> 
> SO YEAH, THE POLL IS--
> 
> KILL THEM.   
> LET THEM LIVE. 
> 
> JUST LEAVE EITHER IN THE COMMENTS, AND I WILL TALLY IT UP. 
> 
> I PUT THIS AT THE END JUST IN CASE, AS WELL. :O

For the most part, Sam still feels like an Elephant has taken refuge on his back. Dean had stitched him up the best that he could, with the tools in his box, but Sam couldn’t help hissing in distress each time he stretched his arm out just shy of too far. When he inquired on why he practically no longer had the strength to move, Dean half-assed a reply about something going wrong, and that it wasn’t entirely Sam’s fault, but he’s not innocent in the whole thing either—that he should think of the pain as a punishment for whatever it is that he did. Sam’s fine with that. He just wishes that it didn’t feel like someone was snapping his bones in half with each step that he takes.

It’s not _too_ bad, just hinders him from doing a lot. Which is frustrating because he really wants to have sex. He even promised Dean that he wasn’t bothered about the pain, that he just needed the older man inside of him. To his utter disappointment, Dean refused, assuring Sam that he should only want to be hurting in one place, and at least he can sit without fidgeting at the moment—would Sam really want to have to stand the rest of the day, with his back in the condition that it is?

Dean did give him a blowjob, and that was nice. Yet, it’s really not what Sam’s thinking about right this second. Sam never realised how sexy Dean looks when he’s thinking about something. His emerald hues are glazed over, index finger situated in the space between his lips, eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration. He looks like a professor grading dissertations, and when the hell did Sam start developing a hot for teacher kink? Sam’s suddenly hit with the vision of Dean wearing those designer glasses that are advertised on television, framing mouth-watering male models faces, and bringing the sexy to something that used to be ridiculed none stop. Then again, those models have got nothing on Dean. God, he’s like sex personified. Sam’s having a _really_ hard time staying in his seat, when he wants nothing more than to grind his ass into Dean’s crotch, get the man stiff and willing, and then sink down on Dean’s huge cock—needing to be filled by the man again, to go home again.

“Sam, I’m not having sex with you. Stop it. I can hear you thinking,” Dean mutters under his breath, tapping his finger on the mousepad to load up a different web page. Sam hasn’t got a clue what he’s up to, but Dean ordered him to stay in his seat, and to not even dare think about snooping in on his _research._ Sam’s first hint that something isn’t quite right here should have been the fact that Dean didn’t want to have sex with him, as Sam is in pain. Not like this has ever stopped Dean before, and Sam kind of wishes that that Dean was present at the table. Dean is _always_ horny, so there must be something else to this sudden bout of chastity.

Sam suddenly feels vulnerable and ugly. Could it be that Dean isn’t attracted to him anymore? Is that why he doesn’t want to touch him? It wasn’t that long ago that Dean had been knee deep inside of him for the fourth time in one night. Sure, that had been six days ago, when all of the adrenaline in his body halted the progression of the pain to his receptors—Dean still came inside him over and over again that night. A person has to be attracted to another person to be _that_ consistent. Then. . . Maybe his clock is ticking. He hasn’t checked himself in the mirror lately. He could be getting fat, for all he knows. He could have wrinkles around his eyes, and who wants that? Dean has them, too, but they just make him look that much more breath taking. Dean’s unabashed beauty is undeniable; the older man doesn’t like it when he calls him that. Says that it sounds girly, even though Sam insists that he doesn’t mean it in that way. Dean usually stops listening to him at that point, changing the subject soon after. Of course Sam is deadly curious to find out why that seems to upset Dean on the level that it does. He’s been meaning to ask about it for a while now, but he’s never really been _free_ enough to do so.

No time like the present.

“Dean?”

Without looking up, Dean dips his head to show that he’s listening.

“Why don’t you think you’re beautiful?”

Dean rolls his eyes lethargically, seemingly exasperated. “It’s what my Father called me when he made me suck his dick,” he replies without hesitation, briefly glancing at Sam, as if asking the younger man if he’s satisfied now.

“You are beautiful, though.”

Frowning, Dean closes the lid of the laptop. “I’m sexy. I’m hot. I’m handsome. I’m good-looking. Not beautiful. Not pretty. Okay?”

“I don’t mean it like that. You’re just perfect. And beautiful is something appealing to the eye—something perfect. Like you.”

“You’re the beautiful one, Sammy. Have you seen you?” Dean returns, voice thick with emotion.

Sam shakes his head. “I’m nothing compared to you.”

“Don’t say that. I know I could have anyone that I wanted, but I picked you. You were always the _only_ choice,” Dean dismisses that last remark, reaching out his hand to cover Sam’s on top of the table, gazing longingly into his eyes.

For a long while, they just stare at each other, trying to put pieces of a puzzle lacking important key tiles together. Neither one is going to acquire all of the answers, but they know that they’re fine the way that they are right now. There’s no distance between them. Dean has proven time and time again just what he will do to make sure that Sam is with him in his arms for the rest of their lives. Sam believes that there is no other place that he would rather be than right here with the man that he loves with all of his heart, enough to be a slave to all of his desires. Sometimes, Sam can feel the pressure of his heart beating against his ribcage when he looks at Dean, wondering to himself just how he managed to get so lucky. Dean would do anything for him, and it’s rare for people to discover that, especially on their first time. Dean is the only person that Sam has ever been with—the only relationship that he has ever had, and it couldn’t be more perfect between the two of them, even if he tried.

The spell breaks when Dean reopens the laptop lid, the two men falling into a comfortable silence. Dean doing God knows what on the computer, and Sam contemplating the implications of the various expressions passing Dean’s features. Whatever he’s up to, it looks deadly serious. Sam’s not sure how long he can last without the curiosity tantalizingly teasing his nerves, plaguing him with notions about Dean’s intentions here.

Sam shoots them down, sternly. Dean’s business is Dean’s business, and Sam should just trust that keeping Sam out of the loop is the only course of action here, even if the need to _know_ is slowly driving him insane.

Moving to stand, Sam stills when Dean’s eyes land on his, silently weighing the potential motives. Sam huffs, saying without saying that he’s not going to use his height to his advantage to get a peek at the screen that Dean seems to be guarding with his life. As Dean contemplates that for a beat of time, Sam makes it known with a look that he needs to pee. Finally, Dean nods his head like he doesn’t care, furiously typing away on the keys. When Sam doesn’t move, Dean sends him a why-are-you-still-here look, which quickly springs Sam into action.

He makes it up the stairs in record time, slipping into the bathroom. He’s hit with a wave of nostalgia as he clicks the door shot behind him, recalling the passion in Dean’s eyes those few nights ago, not being able to say those three words that would admittedly make Sam’s heart sing. He knows deep down that Dean does feel that way about him, and he comprehends how it could be hard for someone like Dean to utter the words of adoration—they’re permanent. No taking them back, so Dean has to be sure that it’s what he really wants.

Deciding not to go down that road, Sam lifts the toilet seat, groaning as he straightens his back to undo the button on his jeans. He relaxes again when his member is free, aiming for the water, and starting to turn it a golden colour as he empties his bladder. Sam immediately realizes that he’s dehydrated. It doesn’t come as much of a surprise to him, considering how he had been sat at the kitchen table with Dean for what feels like days. It completely escapes his mind why he didn’t just get up to pour a glass of water for himself whenever he needed one.

Well, anyone that had the option between staring at Dean Winchester and quenching their thirst would be idiotic to miss even a single beat—emptying the contents of one’s bladder is entirely different, as Dean would have gone ape shit if Sam wet himself. Yes, Dean likes to pee down Sam’s throat sometimes, but that doesn’t mean that he’s a fan of the ammonia scent that it produces, especially when absorbed into clothes.

Flushing the toilet and zipping himself up, Sam closes the gap between himself and the sink, turning the nozzle to begin washing his hands, a pensive look on his face as he notices the rope burns on his wrists. When he came to, Sam knew that he was tied up. Dean hadn’t told him why, though. It’s odd to him, as the only times that Dean ties him up these days is when they do rape-fantasy, lashings, and when Sam pretends to be a captive to play with their victims. As hard as he tries, the markings don’t conjure up any thoughts of the past events, sending Sam’s mind into a downward turmoil. Something bad _must_ have happened for his wrists to be in the condition that they are. Not just his wrists—approximately seventy-five percent of his body is riddled with injuries, the most prominent one being the cut just below his testicles; if Sam looks hard enough, he can spot the teeth impressions.

Sam is wholly aware that Dean has a _huge_ thing for blood. He loves to smear it all over their skin, then roll around, hands groping ever shred of Sam, until they’re a pile on the floor—soaked with sweat, blood, and debris, Sam’s slick hole clenching around Dean’s demanding length, and wishing that they could never be separated from each other.

Slowing his breathing, Sam buries his hand into his jeans, feeling the split-open flesh wound, eager to feel Dean’s mouth on it. Sam would remember something this deep. He would remember the sensation of getting lighter, leg numbing from the sensual excavation of his blood from his veins. If he didn’t already know that Dean would never forgive him for touching himself without the other man being present, then he would stroke his cock to completion right here in the bathroom. Sam doesn’t have a death wish, so he retracts his hand, rinses off the sweaty flesh of his palms, gingerly wipes them dry, then heads back downstairs to accompany Dean once again at the kitchen table.

_Shockingly,_ Dean is right where he left him, eyes even more focused on the screen before him, giving Sam a cursory glance as he resumes his seat.

Honestly, Sam’s not sure how much he can take of this.

It took far longer than he had initially anticipated, but Dean finally succeeded in planning everything down to a _t._ Sam still didn’t have a clue what was going on, and Dean is proud of himself for keeping it that way. He knows that he has been ignoring his baby in some _departments_ for a while now—it’s going to be one hundred percent worth it when the plan follows through. There are no more creases to iron out. The fine-tooth comb has made its journey through kaleidoscope locks, and the ball and chain is firmly in place.

Everything is ready. Now, Dean just has to assemble the components.

_Step one: the hay stack._

“Sammy, get your ass in the car in five minutes—we’re going hunting,” Dean yells from the bottom of the stairs, satisfied when not a second later, there’s the sound of a door slamming shut, clothes being hurriedly folded into, and then heavy feet descending the steps, by which point Dean is out the door.

Dean waits in the car for Sam, flipping through the radio channels, and stopping as _Eye of the Tiger_ blears through the speakers, revving the engine to prompt Sam to get a move on already.

Sam shovels into the passenger seat, unbridled passion for whatever adventure they’re about to partake in clear on his face. Dean logs the moment Sam notices the luggage in the back seat—no room in the trunk, as its full of _supplies._

“Road trip?” Sam asks, curious.

Dean just smirks, gunning the engine as he pulls out on to the road. “We’ve got some shopping to do, baby.”

Thirty minutes into their drive, Sam’s face is full of questions. Dean is giving absolutely nothing away, singing along to the music, and casting side-long glances at his soon to be betrothed. If Sam happens to pay note to Dean’s childish glee, he doesn’t say anything.

One hour down, Sam shuffles in his seat, gesturing to the window in way of asking to roll it down to get some air into the car. Dean shrugs indifferently, searching for the next turn in. The first destination is still several hours away yet, but if he can find any shortcuts, he’s taking them with the first chance that he gets. Right now, his fingers are itching to start tearing apart limbs, and Sam’s presence in the car is the only thing preventing him from needing to make a pit stop to quench his thirst. Dean can’t afford do this sloppily. He needs to stick to his plan. So what if it’s been weeks since he’s felt the blood of an unwilling human spilling onto his face. For Sam, he can stick it out for as _long_ as it takes.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Sammy?”

Sam fidgets. “Your hands are shaking. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, baby. Just thirsty.”

Two hours down, Sam is staring at Dean’s crotch like it’s the key to unlocking world piece, making it increasingly more difficult for Dean to not just pull-over and release some of their frustrations. He can’t do that night now. He has a game plan. When it all works out, he can guarantee that both parties will be completely satisfied.

“You’re not giving me road-head, Sammy.”

Sam has the decency to act surprised. “Where did that come from? I was just thinking about—“

“Sucking my dick. You were _real_ subtle about it.”

“I don’t get what the big deal is with me sucking your cock while you drive, Dean. I just wanna get a taste—“

Dean sighs. “If you suck my dick, I’ll get distracted, and be more focused on getting my cock as far down your throat as I can get it.”

As the response flows through him, Sam’s cock twitches in his jeans, heavy against the unforgiving materiel. “Please tell me whatever the reason is that we’re out here involves getting dirty in more ways than one? It’s been too long, Dean, and I’m starting to lose my damn mind,” he almost snaps at the older man, narrowly avoiding a growl in his voice because he’s having great hardships willing his arousal to the lowest quantity possible at this point.

“Patience, baby boy. You know I’m gonna take care of everything.”

Sam does know, but that’s not exactly aiding his situation, presently.

Three hours pass, and Dean pulls the car in to one of shadiest looking motels that he’s ever seen. It fits the bill for what he has planned. How he’s going to get around explaining to Sam that they are stopping for today, and that they won’t be able to get anything _done,_ is beyond him.

Killing the engine, Dean’s pushes his door open, creaking it shut behind him, as he starts for the entrance to the motel. He doesn’t need to look back to know that Sam is following him, as the Impala has never been discreet about discharging passengers.

The two men step inside the building, taking note of the lack of life in the place, and wondering—but not caring at all--, how this hunk of shit is still in the ground.

At the sign in desk, the miserable old woman gives them their keys to their room, barely avoiding a sneer when Sam fails to be breezy about making it clear what he wants Dean to do to him as soon as they get in to their room. Not that Dean doesn’t want to. The caress of Sam’s knuckles against his groin has him hard enough to cut glass—he has shit to do, so he quickly rambles off about heading out for a supply run. His excuse being that this had been spur of the moment, and he didn’t really pack much.

Sam protests not being allowed to go with Dean, but eventually sulks off to the room, eyes full of challenge, as if telling Dean that he can’t promise Dean that he won’t start without him.

Needing to nip that in the butt immediately, Dean slams Sam against the wall, one hand practically tearing into the back of his jeans, other forcing Sam’s head back by his hair. Dean growls lowly that he’s not to do _anything_ until he says he can, marking his point with a possessively aggressive grope to Sam’s ass that has his face scrunching up in pain, however his eyes tell a story of nothing buy hopeful anticipation.

“You gonna be a good boy while I’m gone, Sammy?”

Breathing heavily, Sam nods his head. His lips grow moist as he lathes his tongue around the soft skin, eyes never leaving Dean’s.

After four long hours, including the weeks that it has taken to put this all together, Dean _finally_ feels the sensation of warm blood running down his hands, as he silences a beating heart, quickly getting to work on amputating limbs, making sure to dispose of the head and body, for he only requires the arms are legs.

The first of many objects that he needs for his proposal have been put together. He estimates that at least seven or eight more will do the trick. With that in mind, he lights the unneeded remains aflame, storing the sought after appendages in the trunk, ready to head back home to deposit the first corpse in to his basement.

There’s a lot of work to get done.

_Sammy, baby—you’re worth every single second._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT! NOT THAT IT'S ENDING SOON--THERE'S STILL A LOT TO GO OVER YET BETWEEN THE BOYS--I HAVE FOUR DIFFERENT ENDINGS THAT I CAN MAKE HAPPEN.
> 
> TWO INVOLVE DEATH OF THE BOYS.   
> THE OTHER TWO INVOLVE THEM LIVING.
> 
> POLL-----BASED ON YOUR ANSWERS, I'LL GET STARTED ON THE BUILD UP TO EITHER ENDING. 
> 
> SO YEAH, THE POLL IS--
> 
> KILL THEM.   
> LET THEM LIVE. 
> 
> JUST LEAVE EITHER IN THE COMMENTS, AND I WILL TALLY IT UP.


	28. Something Wicked: Part Three.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's supplies have all come together--Sam's feeling extremely frustrated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone responded to the poll! Let them live were the only responses, so I'm happy to announce that the ending is conjuring in my mind. Not yet, there's still a ways to go, but this will have an ending--I promise. 
> 
> It was lovely to hear from people that haven't commented before, and it meant a lot to me that you took the time to express your feelings. 
> 
> Enjoy the latest chapter--the last part of Something Wicked.

The sound of the Impala crunching along the gravel as its backed out of the parking lot stirs Sam from his sleep, _again._ Every night for the past two weeks, Sam has eventually given in to the intoxicating alure of nothingness, and woken up to a partially empty bed. The space where Dean should be resting is still warm, however missing its intended. Sam has sat there countless times now trying to get to grips with the reason for all of this. Each time he reawakens several hours later, sometime around noon, Dean is back in his place, spooning behind Sam, naked body pressed as close as it can get, large hand flattened over his chest, warm breath fanning the nape of his neck. What Sam is lacking, is the space of time where Dean goes off on a solo-adventure. He knows that he must be up to something, as there’s always the distinct smell of soap lingering around the air they breathe. Dean showers before bed, so why would he feel the need to wash himself of the night and early hours of the morning as well?

Sam can’t seem to help himself from getting aggravated by the secrecy. He’s been under the impression that they were in this together, and that they did everything _together,_ so why is he being left out of whatever it is that Dean has been doing for all this time? It’s frustrating to think that Dean might be getting his kicks elsewhere, as Sam certainly hasn’t gotten any action lately. His back is all healed up, and his body is willing to be bent in all shapes and sizes for the older man, but Dean just isn’t taking the bait. He makes up excuse after excuse—that he doesn’t _feel_ like it. Sam knows that that’s a lump of shit because Dean _always_ feels like it.

Not to mention, Sam can tell that Dean is suffering from sexual frustration as well, which gives him hope that Dean isn’t out banging the cities they visit every night, but it also drags up more questions than answers, and Sam’s brain is starting to throb.

He’s lying there staring out the window. Dean’s already gone. Sam doesn’t have a chance of catching up to him, and he doesn’t exactly have the energy to get out of bed at this moment. There’s a battle waging war in his head. One side demands that he go after him, find out what sort of game Dean is playing, while the other assures him that if Dean doesn’t want him involved, then he should just go ahead and respect that. After all, he’ll end up in a lot less trouble that way.

Sam stretches his arms above his head with a yawn. His muscles feel tight. Tighter than they have been for a long while. He’s pent up, and he could really do with some rough sex to relax him, but Dean refuses to play ball at the moment. Sam has tried to seduce him, and he saw it working a few times. Nevertheless, Dean’s face morphed into something controlled, unyielding, and almost determined, remarking to Sam that he just had not been in the mood, to go cool off with a cold shower or something.

In the shower, Sam had come extremely close to stroking his cock. Before he could wrap his hand around his swollen length, Dean had shouted from outside the door that he had better not be doing what he thought he had been doing in there, which had immediately filled Sam with guilt, so he had turned the nozzle until the water had been blisteringly cold, and soaked his cock until it ceded.

What could Dean be up to, really?

* * *

 

Dean drives the knife through the jogger’s chest and through to the other end, twisting it, muffling the agonizing scream with the palm of his hand, sickening grin eating his face, as he slowly lowers them to the ground, extracting the blade when the corpse nestles into the recently-mowed grass.

* * *

 

As far as Sam can tell, there isn’t much to do around these parts. Everywhere they’ve visited has an almost lifeless feel to it. Sam hadn’t been able to help thinking that these locations would be perfect for some bagging and tagging. The streets hold no life, or personal connection—almost as if no one cares who lives or dies here. Nameless faces stroll around the place, never bothering to extend curtesy, or to offer a familiar wave. Nothing exists here in the conventional sense, so why haven’t they been getting their rocks off all over the shot?

Sam bets that they could get away with some pretty gruesome shit around here. He actually feels kind of giddy thinking about it. There’s heat on the edge of his lips, coaxing him to grin like a mad man, thoughts of just what they could get up to filtering around his mind. This is what he wants right now. This is what he craves. Dean could cut into some poor, unsuspecting victim, and then they could play. Play for hours. Taking turns to cut and shed the skin—paint demonic sigils on the body, make them look like some sort of Satanist. And who would care for someone that worships the devil? No one, that’s who. They’re not going to care if they find a Satanist sticking out of the side of a Church, long, brass pole wedged through his head to get him up right.

There are so many thoughts running through Sam’s mind right now, and he’s just starting to realize how much he _needs_ this. Needs to feel that beautiful cacophony of blood spattering on to his face, temporarily dying his hair, gluing the tendrils together, and crusting up under the intense heat that will be exerted during the _activities._ Needs to witness the look of absolute bliss in Dean’s eyes as he artistically draws out the crimson liquid in rivulets, tracking the flow with the tip of his blade, fascinated by its life, releasing it from its captivity, offering the air that it needs to breathe, to prosper and grow. Most of the cadavers just aren’t deserving of their supply, which is why they become targets. Needs to see that cross between life and death with his own eyes, and feed the beast within him, so hungry that his fingers are shaking with raw withdrawal, reminding the young man of just how _long_ it has been since he’s pressed the blade of extermination into an unwilling body, urging the steel through flesh and bone.

God, he _wants_ it.

Sam throws back the covers, crashing to the floor in his haste. He finds the duffel that captures his current interest and unzips it, nerves sky-rocketing as he clutches the handle of the blade, bringing it to the bend of his arm. He sighs with relief as it glides across his skin, splitting him open, euphoria washing over him as his lover in liquid form makes its anticipated appearance, building his temperature as it follows the line of his veins. Sam’s teeth worry his bottom lip, arching and moaning as the release that he’s been looking for barrels through his system, head hitting the floor as he lies back against it, panting out his fulfilment. It’s not enough. Not in the slightest. For now, it will suffice. The aromatic stench hits his nose, deep inhales sucked through his nostrils, eyes glazing over, lips stretching wider than necessary, as he grins at a heightened range, positioning the blade above his eyes. Tentatively, he guides it until the tip crying _his_ blood angles towards his open mouth, almost begging for the inanimate object to just give it to him already.

He whimpers when the first droplet lands on the flat of his tongue, hips shifting, eager for more of that metallic taste that breathes life into him. Sam brings it to his full lips, tongue sliding up the edge to capture every part of essence that it can muster, wanting to just cut the roof of his mouth open, so he can experience a constant flow. Regardless, in this position he’ll most likely choke, far too gone now to manage moving to safety in time.

Still, it wouldn’t be a bad way to go.

* * *

 

Tapping a beat on the steering wheel, Dean wonders what Sam might be dreaming about right now, knowing that it’s been a long time since they did any of their extracurricular activities together. Dean feels his cock twitch in his jeans, groaning in frustration, almost swerving into a tree. It won’t be long now. The last piece of the puzzle is in the trunk of his car. If everything goes to plan, no one will be left unsatisfied.

* * *

 

Sam’s pants are soaked through by the time he hears the Impala returning. He immediately starts to panic, thinking Dean is going to be furious that he dared to have a little fun of his own, without the other man being present. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s shaking out of his daze, searching fruitlessly for tissues, knowing that there’s no way in Hell he’s going to be able to clean all of this off.

The door to the shower appears as if a blessing from above—not that he deserves it, but what does he care—, practically tearing the door off its hinges as he ambles inside, closing the door quietly behind him as Dean’s key enters the entrance way door, the sound of the lock prompting Sam to forego stripping and just get the shower on first.

He peels off his blood-slick clothes as the water starts to cleanse him off his primitive sins, struggling out of the fabric in the meantime, pretending that he doesn’t hear Dean calling out for him, tone changing weight with each seconds that ticks by without a response.

“Sammy? Open this God damn door now.”

Sam didn’t even realize that he locked it, but he’s sort of thanking his lucky stars that he subconsciously did so. It offers slight comfort, knowing that there’s a barrier between them. Still, if he’s learned anything from the times that he tried to make distance between them, a hunk of wood is not going to hinder Dean whatsoever.

“You have exactly five seconds before this door meets the floor. I won’t ask you again.”

Blinking the water out of his eyes, Sam considers that drawing attention to their room, however careless the staff here are, would be a bad idea, if he takes in to account the blood that is still getting intimate with the scruffy carpet. He hadn’t thought of that until this moment, and that’s probably the reason that Dean is growling through the other end, getting angrier with every pulse of air through the timid cracks in the window. Yeah, possibly not the best idea to give the guy another reason to sweep him into Dean’s raging hurricane that will not stop until its demands are met with obedience and cooperation.

Dean doesn’t look pleased when Sam tugs the door open cautiously. He steps aside to give Sam the wide berth he needs to get passed, towel around his waist, however nowhere near clear of the liquid-turned-solids as he would be had he had more time. Sam shuffles his feet over to the bed, disregarding the idea that he should probably stand, as this isn’t Dean’s bed, so he doesn’t give a shit if it gets wet.

As soon as Sam is seated, Dean rounds on him, taut hands layering over Sam’s covered knees. “Why is there blood on the floor?” he asks very calmly, and Sam knows that if he doesn’t answer immediately, that tone will turn on its head in an instant.

“I needed to feel something.”

“Feel what?”

Sam lowers his head in shame. “Just. . . It’s been so long since I’ve seen skin being torn open, and blood pouring out. . . I couldn’t go out and play with a toy without you, so I cut myself instead.”

Dean’s eyes soften, an edge of arousal in the mix, as they catalogue the new jagged marks on Sam’s skin, wishing he had been there to see it.

“Sammy. Baby, I’m sorry. I know this has been hard on you, but it’s been hard on me, too.”

Sam lifts his head, meeting Dean’s eyes for a beat, shocked by the sincerity. “Then where have you been driving off to lately?”

Frowning, Dean stands up. “That’s none of your business.”

“Why not? You say that we’re going on some sort of adventure, where I expect that we’ll have at least some fun, in more ways than one. Instead, you don’t _want_ to have sex, and you’re heading off somewhere in the middle of the night. How is it fair for you to just leave me like that without an explanation?”

Dean can see that Sam is starting to get mad at him, bitch-face _gracing_ the room with its presence. Dean didn’t want to have to deal with this. He’s been working so hard, and he just wanted to cuddle up to Sam’s back, press his nose against his spot on Sam’s neck and dream the night away.

“Look, it’s not something you need to know,” Dean mutters, kicking off his shoes, walking over to the window and pretending to peek through the blinds.

He can almost taste the glare aimed at the back of his head—Sam must be really pissed because he never disobeys him. Not now, at least.

“Great, so you have been out fucking the town. No wonder you’re _never_ in the mood anymore.”

Dean turns so fast with an angry look of his own that the blinds clatter against the glass. “I am not _fucking_ anyone.”

“You’re telling me.”

Dragging a hand down his face, Dean stalks over to Sam, hauling him up the bed and settling between his legs, lips inches apart. “You know my cock only stands for you.”

“It wasn’t always that way,” Sam bites back, ignoring the pleasant channel of air against his eager lips.

“It _is._ You really have no idea just how much I want to sink into you, do ya’?” Dean husks, nibbling Sam’s nose.

“Then why don’t you? Don’t you want to feel my ass clenching around your cock? Don’t you want to mark up my body, make me yours again?”

“You’ll _always_ be mine,” Dean growls lowly. “There’s no need to reclaim you.”

Sam cups Dean through his jeans, satisfied when the breath leaves the older man. “You’re full of shit if you think for a second you’re _not_ in the mood, Dean.”

“Sam, stop.”

Retracting his hand instantly, Sam cedes under Dean’s pressure.

Dean mumbles something, eyes on Sam’s cheek. “What?”

“It’s a surprise. That’s all you’re getting, though. I’ve worked too hard for you to ruin everything.”

Sam ponders that for a moment. “So, this surprise means that we can’t have sex, or play with anything?”

Dean nods regretfully, resisting the urge to grind his hips.

“Okay, I won’t push it. But, can we at least do _something?_ ”

It doesn’t take long for Dean to mull that over, and he’s rolling them over and pushing Sam further down the bed. “You can suck my cock and finger your ass, if you really need something to do.”

“So, I don’t get to get off?”

“Hey, do a good enough job with your fingers, and maybe you will.”

Sam rolls his eyes, reaching for Dean’s belt buckle. He might not be able to get himself off, but he’ll sure as hell enjoy getting Dean there.

* * *

 

After all of the careful planning, sneaking around and getting the supplies all in one place, Dean is finally ready to kick this off. They just got back to their house, and Sam is looking for all the world like he’s about to explode from the spiralling anticipation in his gut. Dean can tell that Sam cannot stand to wait around any longer, which might explain why he keeps bumping in to Dean from behind.

“Come on, big man, your surprise is down here,” Dean says, leading them down into the torture room. He flips the switch, and they both descend the steps, the creak almost like coming home, even though they’re already through the door. Dean steps out of the way when he reaches the bottom, grinning broadly as Sam glances around the room, pensive frown in place as he surveys the area.

He gestures vaguely to the heap at the other side, covered in tarp, and Dean tips his head in affirmation, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the wall.

Sam approaches it with keen interest, fingers almost numb as they curl around the material, yanking his arm back to start dragging it off, eyes going impossibly wide at the display of corpses all piled up into some sort of pyramid shape, limbs acquainting themselves with other limbs in all aspects. Sam’s breath punches out of him, hunger ratchetting his impulses.  Turning to peer over his shoulder at Dean, who is standing there with smug grin on his handsome face, Sam does something with his lips to signal that he’s not sure why they’re all dead, as that kind of takes away from the fun, but after all the time that he’s been on lock down from _this_ type of thing, he’ll gladly accept the offering.

“This is part of the gift. The main one is somewhere inside the corpses. Needle in a haystack, Sammy. Why don’t you go ahead and start ripping them open?”

It’s then that Sam notices how the limbs are stitched together, like Frankenstein gone even more horribly wrong.

_It’s beautiful._

“Okay,” Sam replies, concealing his growing excitement, detouring over to the table where the weapons are kept, and picks up a machete. If anything, it will cut the time this is going to take him in half. _Pun intended._ Supplied with a weapon, Sam rewinds back to the pyramid of bodies, inviting the horrid smell in as he hacks off a limb, laughing psychotically as piece after piece of the puzzle begins to crumble to the ground like a house of cards.

Dean is becoming thoroughly more aroused by the sounds producing from Sam’s throat, exertion coming off the younger man in waves, putting all of his pent up frustration into slicing through bones, listlessly throwing them across the room to get in deeper, start really plunging into the centre of it all, clearly thinking that that’s where it will be. Dean smirks, knowing exactly where he left _it,_ creeping over to the discarded limbs to start on his own project.

Dean has plenty of time to get it all set up, as Sam is completely lost in his own little world, sawing through bone, tearing out intestines with his bare hands, growling in frustration when he finds nothing inside, moving to the next possible hiding spot, crushing organs, getting absolutely drenched in blood as he squeezes all of the juices out of them onto the floor, disappointment clear on his shoulders when he comes up empty, _again._

Every now and then, Dean regards Sam lustfully, making sure Sam hasn’t yet given up, and decided to turn around to request a clue. Satisfied that Sam is far too enthralled in his game of cat and mouse, Dean thrusts another bolt through a knee, following the words he’s currently spelling out. He’s not sure how long it’s going to take for Sam to find _it,_ but he sure as shit hopes that he doesn’t have to stand here, smile on his face as he waits for the inevitable shock to seep in for longer than he deems acceptable. Regardless of how this goes, Dean will be celebrating because he’s waited a very long time for this, and he’s suppressed his own urges to just bend Sam over the nearest surface and pummel his fine ass. Quite frankly, Dean feels like he’s earned his right to _celebrate._

Sam bursts a lung with his foot, while Dean whistles a worker’s tune as he lines up an arm in the correct position, dotting it with a bolt through nameless trucker’s forehead to keep it up right. Everything needs to be perfect. Sam presses his fingers through an eye-socket, wrenching until the optic nerve snaps, breathing heavily from the effort igniting his resolve, while Dean takes a step back to observe what he has so far, nodding his head in appreciation. Sam cracks a head against the floor until it splits open, holding it between his knees to offer a small amount of leverage as he parts the flesh like a flower in bloom, keeping it positioned to thrust in the knife and twist, drawing through either side to half it, clawing through the brain matter, and feeling around for something— _anything_ other than flesh and the familiar sensation of the inner workings of the human body against his warm palm, while Dean secures a chest piece, angling it just right with the current legs situated on the wall, a lone hand pinned between them. Sam is halfway through prying out a set of teeth when he remembers that Dean would not have gotten something so small that it can fit comfortably in the space of gums, while Dean finishes off the third word, half-turning to watch Sam getting closer to the prize, blood _everywhere,_ barely a strip of cloth or skin not covered in the stuff. It’s the most exotic sight Dean has ever had the pleasure of viewing.

The room is ripe with the stench of death, and Dean could not be more comfortable in this moment, happily clenching his digits around another parted limb, bracing it on the ‘V’ of the ‘M’, sighing in glee at the sound of a rib bone snapping. Dean’s not sure what possess Sam to assume _it’s_ hiding in a rib bone. Sure, he’s very convoluted, but not _that_ convoluted.

Dean’s art display is reaching its end, all he has left now is the last stroke of the ‘E’, picking up a hacked up leg to polish it off. Yeah, it looks a little like a zombie apocalypse gone sideways, however it’s perfect to Dean in every sense of the word.

Sam huffs out a breath as he forces out another eye, about ready to throw it across the room when he notices something glinting in the faded pupil. Curious, Sam pinches the dry layer over the cornea, the foreign object squeezing through, making its appearance. It’s shiny, and covered in slime and Sam hooks his thumb and forefinger on the rim of it, carefully extracting it, confusion building as it forms in to a ring shape, gliding through the expertly fashioned ridges that previously held it in place.

The lifeless eye drops from Sam’s hand the moment he comes to terms with the fact that there’s a fucking engagement ring in the centre of his blood-matted palm, glaring at him. Without thinking, he lifts up his shirt to find an area that isn’t stained, wiping it on the _real_ silver, cleaning it with his best efforts.

Is this some sort of joke? This is the surprise? Sam has no idea what he may or may not have been expecting, yet this had never been on his potential-gift-from-Dean list. An engagement ring. An _engagement_ ring. Sam slaps himself mentally. It could _just_ be a ring, but it’s so fucking beautiful. Tears start to gather in Sam’s eyes. He never realized how much he wanted this from Dean until it stared him in the face, flashing from the feeble rays of light in the room. Sam hasn’t cried for a long time. He’s cried on the inside—countless times--, but never like this. Emotions are echoing through him, coaxing more wayward tears from his eyes. These tears aren’t sad. These tears are filled with immense joy. It gives Sam the confidence to believe that Dean wouldn’t be able to kill him. That those threats all those months ago mean nothing now. Dean wants to bind them in the eyes of marriage, and Sam can’t quite fathom how much this is affecting him.

Sam tentatively turns, head lifting to stare at Dean, the older man smirking as he steps aside, revealing the _writing_ on the wall.

Clear as day.

Made with limbs.

So beautiful Sam cries even harder.

_WILL YOU MARRY ME?_

Sam doesn’t have words. He can’t speak in this moment. It’s all too much for him to be capable of forming a syllable, let alone a sentence. He senses when Dean starts to sense that this might have been a huge mistake, and that all of his efforts went to waist, hurt burying itself deep in those olive-green eyes. Sam can’t have that. He can’t allow his weakness to prevent him from saying what he so desperately wants to say.

Dean’s eyes are on him as he takes a few steps back, curling his fingers to feel the ring imprinting on his skin. Sam lowers himself to his knees, swiping three digits through the mass of blood, the essence on his own body far too dry to manage this with efficiency.

 _Paintbrush_ at the ready, Sam beats his legs into submission, demanding that they move. They do so, overwhelmed with just that act alone at this point. Sam approaches the wall, crimson tears dripping onto the floor, taking away some of the flare. It’s okay. This will work. This will.

Shakily, Sam raises his arm, pressing his fingers against the portrait to add his two cents, detailing it as clear as he can with his nervous disposition. When he can sense the answer himself, Sam mechanically moves out of the way, tears still heavy in his lids as he gazes longingly at Dean, everything he can’t say bleeding through his eyes.

Breathing in deep, Dean pushes himself off the wall and approaches his canvas, heart in his throat. He skitters his eyes around the wall, searching for the very thing he’s been banking on since he began this endeavour.

And there it is.

Under the cut.

Blood red and sloppy.

_Yes._

 

 

 


	29. Consummation of Engagement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam consummate their engagement. Then there's something at the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one to lead up to pave the way for the next.

Dean and Sam have been at it for going on an hour now. They’re covered in blood and remains, yet neither of them have ever felt this at peace with themselves in their entire lives. There’s something so utterly purifying about consummating their engagement around a bunch of dead bodies. Dean thinks it’s almost poetic, with their lifeless eyes witnessing the finalization of Dean’s commitment to wed Sam, horrified beyond the grave that the two of them will now come in a single package. A single package with _Winchester_ tagged on it. Sam’s come three times already. Dean, on the other hand, has been edging himself. When he reaches his climatic end in this endeavour, he wants to _fill Sam up_ , to the point where he can’t help but cry pearly tears out of his puffy rim with every step that he takes—like a leaking faucet.

Biting down on Sam’s shoulder, Dean adds another mark to his masterpiece. He can’t help but admire the litany of multi-coloured bruises rising over the entirety of Sam’s body. Some big, some small. Some apparent, some vague. Dean just hasn’t been able resist the urge to sink his teeth in to Sam’s endlessly tempting flesh, knowing that it drives the younger man wild when he does this. He doesn’t do it for Sam, though. He does it because he _wants_ to. It drives him wild to see Sam decorated with evidence of himself, hence his reasoning for postponing his own orgasm, _needing_ to mark Sam up _inside_ and out. Sam’s left his fair share of blunt claw marks on Dean’s back, shoulders and arms. Not that Dean cares. He encourages it. Seeing those jagged lines reflected back at him in the mirror the next day sends shivers coursing through him.

Although he’ll never admit it out loud, Dean is Sam’s just as much as Sam is his.

Sam arches his back, giving Dean the necessary stance to thrust deeper, growling at the fluctuation of Sam’s walls around his member, silently begging him for its feeding. Dean sends an unspoken message that he’ll give it what it needs soon.

Sam squeezes his eyes shut, lulled by the sudden methodical swipes of Dean’s scorching tongue alone the nape of his neck, throaty growls emanating due to the sweaty taste—mixed with blood, arousal and discarded skin. Sam’s body thrums with the pleasurable agony electrifying his veins. He’s not sure just how much more he can take of this. His cock throbs between his legs, refusing to soften, dry pulses of passion enlarging the weeping head. Sam doesn’t have another one in him. For all that he’s worth, he just can’t produce enough at the rate that Dean is bringing him to completion again and again, switching up angles with each strained moan that envelopes the air closest to the ground.

Sam’s head rolls to the side as Dean pulls him back sharply on a downward thrust, knocking the air out of him. Dean’s burying himself as deep as he can inside Sam’s body, murderous hands never once abandoning their positon on his hips, steadying Sam. If he had the brain cells to be grateful for that, he would be. Nevertheless, Dean’s ravenous gyrations are stilling any thought process Sam may have the luxury of owning at this point.

“God, Dean. . . _please. . .”_ Sam whimpers softly, tongue gliding over his bottom lip periodically.

Dean slowly jerks his hips back and forth, exiling one hand to duck under Sam’s body, strong arm hauling Sam up and back, melding their blood-sweat slick skin together. Dean noses the pulse-point on Sam’s neck, enjoying the sensation of the erratic thumps against the tip of his nose. He breathes in Sam’s natural scent, gentling caressing the humid skin with a whisper soft kiss, eyes sliding shut as he lethargically presses his thighs right up against Sam’s ass, hips moving in a figure eight in slow succession, staving off his orgasm for just a little bit longer.

“Don’t worry, baby. Just hold on,” Dean soothes, drawing Sam’s sensitive ‘lobe between his teeth, gently grinding the delicate flesh as he pulls out nearly all the way, before slamming back in. Sam lets out an obscene noise, biting the flesh of his arm to hold back the onslaught of pleading that demands to be set free. Dean’s not waiting for that. He’s not waiting for anything of the sort. To Dean, Sam never looks more beautiful than when he’s like this—consumed with lust, stuffed full of Dean’s cock, tendons in his neck angrily pressing against its prison, sweat soaking his entire body. He’s perfect like this, and Dean has been without it for several weeks. Screw anyone that has a problem with him getting his fill.

“Dean—I can’t. Please, it’s too much. I need you to come inside me,” Sam pants out, falling back down to his hands and knees, putting every ounce of strength that he has left in him into thrusting his ass back onto Dean’s cock, clenching his muscles to their maximum to ensure the ending that he’s been waiting for, for what seems like forever now.

Dean spits expletives, nearly shredding through the tender skin of his lip bottom lip. He crumbles after a few well-timed compressions of Sam’s eager entrance around his blood-thick cock, slamming one last time with everything his has inside Sam’s body, white knuckling Sam’s hips as he expels dose after dose of come into Sam’s channel, energy slowly draining from his system, body going limp as the newly engaged couple collapse on the floor.

Sam sighs intently, enjoying the weight of Dean’s form pressing him in to the ground. He jolts with each feeble jerk of Dean’s hips, lasting droplets of come adding to the mix.

They’re both certain that that’s the most intense sex that they have ever had.

And it was _perfect._

“I hope you’re happy for me to just chill out here with my cock up your ass, Sammy, ‘cause I ain’t movin’,” Dean mumbles tiredly, rubbing his face into Sam’s sweaty back.

“Even if I minded, I haven’t got the energy to move,” Sam replies breathlessly, folding his arms, and resting his chin in the dip.

Dean laughs throatily. “So, Sammy. We’re getting married, huh. What do you think?”

“I think I’m looking forward to being officially yours in the eyes of God,” Sam mumbles, shivering at the ghost of a smile stretching over his moist flesh.

“Soon as I get in touch with one of my friends, we can make it official.”

Sam shifts underneath Dean’s weight. “You have friends?” he questions, amusement in his tone.

Dean frowns. “Does that surprise you?”

“Yeah, actually. Thought you were Billy-no-mates,” Sam shoots back remorselessly.

A glimmer of lust shoots up Dean’s spine. He remembers that about a few month ago Sam wouldn’t even speak to him without permission. Nice to know that he hasn’t lost his sharp tongue. After all, he has the audacity to insinuate that Dean is anything less than perfect.

“Contact, then,” Dean relents, lucidly bringing his arm back to offer a resounding smack to Sam’s ass. “Not that it matters—“

“Aw, you thought you had friends. That’s so cute,” Sam teases, grinning against the following repeat performance against his blushing skin.

“Watch it, baby boy. We’re not married yet,” Dean growls non-threateningly, enjoying the mood between them.

“You’re still inside me.”

Dean stares at the back of Sam’s head. “And?”

“It’s nice. I’ve missed this, Dean. This closeness—“

“Are you getting sappy? You could barely talk when you found the ring, why don’t we go back to that?” Dean taunts, grinning in secret when Sam instantly brings the ring in to his line of sight, admiring the craftsmanship and the weight that it holds.

Shrugging, Sam bends his neck back as far as it will go, catching Dean’s eyes. “Okay. You might say it like this if you were me. I’ve missed having you so far up my ass that I can feel you in my stomach, and just lazing around with you still inside me, hoping that maybe you could just stay inside me all night, Dean,” he admits, nestling in to the ground, rhythmically flexing his hole around Dean’s soft cock.

“Careful, sweetheart. If you wake up the beast, be prepared to face its wrath,” Dean husks, angling up to breathe over Sam’s lips.

“You are so full of yourself,” Sam snorts, lowering his head.

Dean nips at Sam’s neck. “Actually, I’ll think you’ll find that you’re full of me,” he corrects, proving his point by pressing all of his weight in to Sam’s form.

A hiccupping breath wooshes past Sam’s parted lips. “Oh. . .  Yeah.”

For the rest of the night, they consummate their engagement again and again. Sam does eventually fall asleep with Dean’s grounding weight—now cleaned and lube-slicked—as far as it can settle inside him, the older man spooned up behind him, shamelessly draping as much as he can over Sam’s body, not even embarrassed by the fact that Dean wouldn’t be able to sleep any other way.

And then he wakes up the next day to an empty bed, with no Sam in sight.  


	30. A Moment of Weakness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has lost all control. He breaks down, and then pulls himself back together to start looking for Sam, knowing exactly where to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next one is longer, as it's in Sam's POV. You may have noticed that Dean's are never really that long because his train of thought doesn't really extend beyond Sam and getting him back. XD 
> 
> I was wondering if anyone would like to try making a banner for this? I mean, I'm not very good at that type of thing, and it would be really cool. ART WORK would be awesome, too. :D Just helps inspire someone a little more when they see their vision in techno colour. :O

In his thirty-eight years of existence, Dean has never felt this out of control. Breaths are leaving him in panicked whooshes, chest constricting, weighed down by the onslaught of anxiety eating away at his flesh. He’s shaking from top to bottom, perched on the end of his bed, insubordinate hands rubbing over his face repeatedly, attempting to drag off the vicious feeling in his gut that he’s just lost Sam forever. Their room is in tatters, broken pieces of furniture pointing towards the ceiling, silently asking what they ever did to deserve such treatment. Skin is hanging loosely off Dean’s worn knuckles, scrapes and deep gashes from overdoing it layering his naked body. He feels helpless, alone for the first time. It’s a horrible feeling. All he wants is to turn back the clock to last night, where Sam had still been nestled in his arms, warm and content—with him.

Dean doesn’t have the mental capacity to think straight, currently. His mind is awash with gruesome images of a shadowed face touching, hurting, playing with his Sammy.

An animalistic growl tears through Dean’s throat, nostrils flaring as uncertified oxygen surges into his system. Broad shoulders rise and fall with a staggering succession, thick fingers curling into already tender palms, worrying the skin. Dean stands, bracing himself as he takes his first steps, not trusting himself to be as efficient in the simple task of walking in this moment. Slowly but surely, he makes his way to the torture room, deciding that he needs to do something with his hands to take his mind off of the screen play developing in his head, facing the harsh critics of his embroiled reality.    
Distractedly, Dean snaps on a pair of gloves. He begins depositing the scattered limbs into the cooler, bending and dipping, ignoring the memories flooding his system of the previous night, how incredibly sexy Sam had looked hacking away at his present, letting out all of the pent up frustration that he experienced in the weeks prior to the event.

When Dean reaches the wall with his work of art pinned up, starting back at him, his fingers ghost over the response written in blood, head dropping. For a while, he stays rooted to the spot, idly mirroring the finger impressions with his own, wishing he could sense their weight—wishing that Sam would just fall through the wall in to his arms again.

Suddenly, it all becomes too much, and Dean collapses to the ground, head banging against the wall. No one’s here to see this, but that doesn’t make him any less embarrassed with himself. Every moment with Sam attacks him all at once. The smiles that Sam reserved only for Dean. The insufferable rolls of his eyes when Dean said something lewd and inappropriate, which Sam pretended to have a problem with, even though they both know that he gets off on it. Sam’s expressions of love, how he had felt so vulnerable in those moments, however pushed past it just to prove to Dean that he meant every word. Everything about Sam forces Dean to question his every action in life. He makes him regret killing his Mother. He makes him regret raping Sam those first few times, when sex between them when they’re both ready and willing is better than anything on this God forsaken planet. Sam makes him regret being alive if Sam’s not there with him.

For the first time since Dean was seven years old, and stopped letting the abuse from his Father get to him, tears fall unrelenting from his eyes, wetting his cheeks, and joining the labyrinth of chemicals and cells sewed together in the history of the stony flooring.

Dean cries for Sam, needing him back with him right this second like he needs air to breathe life in to his body. Dean cries for all those times he pretended that he didn’t care, wondering if that could possibly be why Sam is gone now. Dean cries because he didn’t get to tell Sam that he loved him, too. Not really. Not with the intent that he owes to Sam to express. Dean cries because when he woke up, and couldn’t find Sam, half of his soul perished in an eternal flame.

Dean is completely overwhelmed in this moment. Before Sam came in to his life for real, emotions weren’t something he felt. Anger meant nothing to him. Desire had been all cock and balls. Fear had been non-existent—all of those emotions that he never thought he would have to deal with slowly pumped in to his bloodstream the more time that he spent with Sam.

Right now, anger and fear are at the top of his list. Dean is done crying. It’s time to do something about this. If someone has taken his Sammy away from him, they better run for their pathetic lives, because Dean is going to hunt them down to the ends up the earth. Dean presses the pads of his right thumb and forefinger to his eyes and erases the outline of moisture. He presses a kiss to the blood-stained wall—it’s not Sam’s blood, but that not’s important right now--, and vows to it that he will get him back.

As if a switch has suddenly turned on, Dean loads up the rest of the pieces in the cooler, closes and locks the lid, and then proceeds to power-wash the floor. Within minutes, the smell of rotting flesh is extinguished from the room, and it appears as though nothing has happened.

Now that that’s settled with, Dean heads upstairs for a quick shower, ignoring the urge to use Sam’s shampoo. He’s not some chick that just got dumped on prom night. When he gets Sam back, and he will, he’s going to bind him to his fucking body, because there is no way that he is going to ever lose sight of his baby boy again.   
Not after this.

Showered and changed, Dean heads back down to the torture room, carrying a duffel bag with him, car keys in his back pocket. He loads it with necessities, face expressionless. Zipping the bag up, Dean straps it over his shoulder, casting one last look at the hand-shaped crimson pattern on the wall, and then ambles back up the steps, closing and locking the door behind him.

Dean pulls out his laptop from under his seat in the car, loading it up quickly. He hacks in to the F.B.I. address book, easily passing through the firewalls, and locates the name that he’s pining for. With that set, he logs the address in to his G.P.S, gunning the engine to start his journey, grip tight on the steering wheel.

He doesn’t allow himself to think about what might be happening to Sam. Dean is comforted by the fact that he knows that Sam will be with him once again, and the person that dared to take Sam away from him will get what’s coming to them one way or another.

During the drive, Dean maps out his game plan over and over again, until there are no mistakes. When he’s parking the Impala at the end of the road, he has all the confidence in the world that this is going to go his way, and that he’s come to the right place in order to get the information that he needs.  
   
Stepping out of the car, Dean resituates his bag over his shoulder, green eyes dead set on his targeted house. He strolls up to the front door, not bothering with sneaking around the back. The neighbourhood is quiet, so he’s not worried about any witnesses.

Dean raps on the door three times, impatiently waiting for the person occupying the two-bedroom house—from the look of things--, to open the door. Luckily, Dean doesn’t have to take long, offering a grim smile as the door swings open, a startled Bobby Singer going ashen white. Before the forensics expert has a chance to slam the door shut, Dean is shoving him in to his house, kicking the door shut behind him.

Dean’s hand clenches around Bobby’s throat. He leads them in to a messy kitchen, throwing Bobby down in to a chair, quickly pulling rope from his jacket pocket and securing Bobby to the furniture.

Bobby looks terrified behind his façade of defiance, lips tightly closed, asserting without words that he’s got nothing to say to Dean. Too bad, as Dean just knows that Bobby is the way to Sam, given the evidence that he’s the only other soul on the planet that knows of Dean’s living quarters, and Dean is not about to insult his own pride for one second to even fathom the notion that he slipped up twice.

Not. Going. To. Happen.

“Where’s Sam?” Dean demands casually, shucking his jacket off and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt as he waits for an answer. Silence lingers in the tense air as Dean unzips his duffel bag, pulling out Gluttony, testing the sharpness against the tip of his finger. Satisfied, Dean turns his form to Bobby once again, crowding the scruffy man’s space, and pressing the hungry blade against the dark circles of Bobby’s right eye.

“Well, he’s not here,” Bobby snarks, clearly trying to avoid the overwhelming panic of once again being privy to this psychopath’s attention.

“Yes, I can see that. Thing is, I’m certain that you know exactly where he is. And if you don’t tell me, I will hunt down everyone that means even the slightest shred to you, and tear them apart,” Dean intones as if he were explaining to the waiter what he wants for his three-course-meal, light and airily.

Bobby swallows audibly.

“I told you that if I ever see you again, I would kill you. I’m willing to let that slide if you tell me where my Sammy is.”

Narrowing his eyes, Bobby snorts. “He’s not your Sammy. He’s Sam. He was a good man, and you turned him in to a monster for one of your sick games, Winchester. No matter what you say or do to him, it’ll all be false. It’s not real, y—“

“Shut your fucking face, you son of a bitch,” Dean snarls, slamming his first in to Bobby’s left cheek. “Don’t you dare try to tell me what’s real and what isn’t real.”  
   
Spitting the trace amounts of blood pooling in his throat, Bobby shoves down the pain blossoming on his face. “You made him care about you. You made him love you. It’s called Stockholm syndrome, moron. Look it up,” he shoots back, feeling as though the next blow to his head was worth it.

Dean crouches to Bobby’s eye-level, a sick grin forming on his face. “I know what it is. I know what I did. Sometimes, people are meant to be together. However, certain. . . Personality traits get in the way. With a little conditioning, you can get rid of those, and then the real fun can begin, and you can actually make something out of it. That’s what I did with Sam. And yeah,” Dean pauses, a softness in his tone that Bobby hadn’t been expecting breaking through the cracks in his composure. “I changed Sam to suit my needs. I did. But he’s not the only one that changed. I’ve changed, and you know what? I don’t regret that.”

Bobby was about to form a reply, until his teeth flew out of his mouth, sliding across the floor, and Dean’s fist relatedly slammed in to his skull, blurring his vision.  
Dean cups Bobby’s chin, glaring at the older man menacingly. “And because of that, I will stop at nothing to get him back. I’ll wipe out the whole fucking world if I have to, to find him. If you want all of that blood on your hands, be my guest,” Dean growls, crushing his knee in to Bobby’s nose, enjoying the resounding crack. “Or, you can tell me who has Sam, and none of that will happen.”

Bobby coughs and sputters, breathing in deep through his mouth now that his nose is practically useless. Dean catches Bobby’s line of sight, twisting around and zeroing in on the photo on the counter of a woman with a child, smiling at the camera.

Smirking, Dean strides over to it, taking the photo out of the frame and flipping it over, observing the date, time, and name of the event.

“Sophie and Ethan, huh?” Dean muses, casting a glance at the bleeding man. “This your wife and kid?”

“Do’ y’ fu’k’I to’c t’m,” Bobby forces out brokenly, refusing to showcase the pleading in his eyes.

Dean whistles. “She’s pretty hot, you know? Before Sammy, in a situation like this, I would fuck her and make you watch. Now, though? I’ll gladly just kill her and make you watch. How does that sound, huh?” Dean asks, placing the photo in his back-pocket, and reaching for his duffel bag, planning to head out and hunt the little family down.

“W’t, do’t!” Bobby screams, desperate need in his voice, tears mixing with the blood on his face.

Dean halts his movements, regarding Bobby coolly. “Absolutely, my friend. Just tell me where Sam is.”

Regretfully, Bobby does.

Dean leaves without a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REITERATION:
> 
> Next one is longer, as it's in Sam's POV. You may have noticed that Dean's are never really that long because his train of thought doesn't really extend beyond Sam and getting him back. XD 
> 
> I was wondering if anyone would like to try making a banner for this? I mean, I'm not very good at that type of thing, and it would be really cool. ART WORK would be awesome, too. :D Just helps inspire someone a little more when they see their vision in techno colour. :O


	31. Top of the Food Chain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and James were way over their heads from the start. Bobby has a little surprise waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE! THIS IS YOUR CHRISTMAS PRESENT FROM ME!!! :D 
> 
> follow me on tumblr, guys! I post about when I'm gonna update and stuff, and there's lots of bottom!sam/jared goodness! 
> 
> http://drivingdownnowherestreetwithyou.tumblr.com/

Sam’s eyes pop open, taking in the room. He senses the moment that the sleep clears from his eyes that he’s not at home. The familiar feeling of Dean’s arms wrapped tightly around his form fail to register, and the smell that has always notified Sam of Dean’s presence just _isn’t_ there. He frowns, apparently understanding that he’s bound to a lead pipe, and something must have happened while he had been asleep. This isn’t the torture room, which reinforces his assumptions that he isn’t at _home._ Sam rolls his eyes. Seems that someone has kidnapped him. Fantastic. Now he’s going to have to clean up a huge mess, when Dean pulls his head out of his ass, and finds him.

Bored, Sam ponders what the sad motherfucker who’s going to be _literally_ torn in two looks like. He assumes that at some point they will come down here to feed him, or to monologue about their end game, which Sam will find zero interest in. All Sam is certain of is that their time is coming to an abrupt end in this world. Sam almost wants to laugh. Billions of people in the world, and they selected _him_ as their captive. Maybe they just didn’t know who exactly they were dealing with at the time. Sam’s not fussed about the details. He knows that soon he will be with Dean again.

His back is starting to get stiff, so Dean better haul ass. Rolling his neck to relieve some of the pent up tension, Sam clocks on to light shining in through the crack in the door. A shadow looms passed it for a single second, notifying Sam that he’s not alone. Clearly, they’re not ready to go through with their plan quite yet. Maybe they don’t realize that Sam is awake. Pity. Sam could use the company, even if it is going to be mincemeat in no time at all.

Licking his dry lips, Sam huffs. This isn’t as fun, when it’s not leading up to something. Ususally, when he’s in this positon, Dean is making him feel things that the human body just _shouldn’t_ be able to feel, nevertheless, does—or playing the role of the victim to mess with the _real_ victim. There’s no one here to give false promises to. It sucks. Sam’s really bored right now. He had been hoping for morning sex. From what Sam can remember, he fell asleep with Dean still inside of him—does that mean that whoever the fuck this is touched Dean’s cock to extract him?

Blood boils through Sam’s body, eyes narrowing in to tiny slits. That just will _not_ do. Not at all. No one gets to touch Dean’s dick, but Sam. No one gets to touch Dean, but Sam— _period._ Rage blossoms in the pit of Sam’s stomach, adrenaline rushing through his system. He tests his bonds, pleased to note that with enough effort, he can pry himself off of this.

Taking a deep breath, Sam tucks his feet under his ass, stretching out to plant them on the space on the wall. With every bit of strength that he can throw in to his lunge, Sam pitches forward, ignoring the shot of pain through his arm. Unfortunately, he fails to pry the pipe off the wall. Renewing his efforts, Sam clenches his teeth, grinding his feet in to the wall, feeling the burn in his legs, as he inches forward, lead protesting with each stretch.

The door at the top of the stairs flies open, panicked  shoes descending the steps with purpose. Sam turns his head to narrow his eyes maliciously at the son of a bitch that thought for one second that it’s okay to touch what doesn’t belong to him. When Sam first woke up, he resigned himself to thinking that Dean would get here, sort out the _problem,_ and then they could be on their merry little way. Not now, though. Not now, when Sam’s anger is flooding all of his other senses, replaced with nothing but the _need_ to butcher this asshole for sticking his nose where it _does not_ belong.

Sam glimpses the tell-tale flash of fear in the man’s eyes, snarling viciously. There’s a syringe in his line of sight, ready to put him down. Sam can’t have that. With one lust brutal thrust, Sam breaks free from the wall, feral gleam in his eyes as he rises to his full height, disregarding the swinging pipe setting him off kilter. Sam lunges for the sharply dressed man, large hand curling around a dainty wrist, bone shattering under the weight of his grip. The syringe falls to the floor, shattering. Horse tranquilizer puddles around a leather shoe, a howl of agony following its spread.

“You’re gonna need a lot more than that to put me down,” Sam sneers, twisting the wrist, satisfied with the resounding snap. He’s about to deliver a blow to the fucker’s face, when suddenly a burst of air passes through his hair just before a _very_ blunt object connects with the back of his head.

Harry secures Sam to a ceiling chain, assuring his captivity. From what he had been told, Sam didn’t need much restraining. That he’s just bait for the real predator that they’re after. Harry surveys the unconscious man, wondering how someone with Sam’s record in the business could have fallen so far down the rabbit hole. Harry’s not sure that he’s ever seen such malicious intent in any of the psychopaths that he’s bagged and tagged over the years. What this man must have gone through. . . Harry doesn’t even want to entertain that. It’s not good for his peace of mind to dwell on such things.

Once this is all over, Harry will make sure that Sam gets all the help that he needs. After all, he’s been given specific instruction that Sam is not the one that they need to eradicate in this little venture of theirs. The _untouchable_ Dean Winchester has been in the wind for years. No one knew who he is, what he looks like, or where he may strike next. Thanks to a detailed description of the man’s whereabouts from a forensics expert, who goes by the name of Bobby Singer, Harry has not only seen the man, but is _finally_ a step ahead of him in the playing filed.

Harry has been tracking Dean for many years of his life. He’s lost friends, family, relatives due to his obsession with bagging him. He supposes that his story is somewhat similar to the man hanging before him, in that respect. However, Harry would never be foolish enough to face the guy one on one, without any leverage. Sam is that leverage, and Harry is confident that he’s playing his cards right. Dean Winchester isn’t the type of man to sleep with his victims, to cuddle them to his chest—Sam _means_ something to Dean, which is why he’s the perfect subject to capture the psychopath.

According to a distressed call from Bobby, Dean is on his way, and he’s _very_ angry. Clearly out for blood. Rage often clouds someone’s judgement, so Harry has that working for him, as well. Dean will be sloppy, unfocused, and that’s when Harry will strike. He’s been given permission by the man in charge to deliver the finishing blow. Prison would do Dean absolutely no good. Giving him a life sentence is pointless. From his studies, Harry knows with absolute certainty that Dean is a freaking genius, and titanium walls won’t be able to keep him in. That’s why ending his life is the _only_ sensible option.

Harry’s standard issue firearm burns a hole in the small of his back, anticipating the upcoming events. Harry’s excited, despite himself. He’s been waiting for an opportunity like this for _so_ long, that he’s almost reluctant to believe that it’s finally going to happen. In the time to come, Harry is going to come face to face with his obsession.

“Any minute now, Dean is going to barrel in here, all guns blasin’. I can’t wait. Honestly, Sam, I’ve been waiting for this for longer than you can imagine. The difference between you and I, is that I’m prepared for this. I’ve been preparing for this. . . for what seems like forever, and it’s finally here. The infamous Dean Winchester, who goes by so many other names, will finally be at my mercy. Every man of justice has that one person that they can’t get out of their mind. Mine, is Dean. The moment I caught wind of him, he took up every part of my mind. I woke up in cold sweats, wondering who he is, what he looks like. Now, I know. He’s very good looking for a sicko, I must say. God must have been paying attention for the wrong reasons, when he put him together.”

“Sam, when this is all over, I can finally get my life back. I can reunite with my wife and kids, and mend the friendships that I’ve acquired over the years. My prayers won’t be the same every night— _help me find Dean Winchester--,_ that prayer has been answered. Finally, the Lord has acknowledged that I am the right man for the job. He’s realized his mistake with Dean, and now it’s time for me to fix it. To be the soldier that he’s been guiding me to become. I’m not bothered about the recognition and fame that I will gain when the life fades from Dean Winchester’s eyes. All that matters is I can once and for all put him to rest. Sure, there will one day be another Dean Winchester—God makes mistakes sometimes, like the rest of us. He forgives us, and we forgive him. It’s a two-way street.”

“I promise you, Sam. From the bottom of my heart, I promise that I will get you the help that you deserve. It will take time to recover, and I’m not gonna lie to you, and say that it’s going to be easy. Hell, you may never be the same again. With determination and the help of prayer, I’m sure that you will find the light again. It won’t be today, and it won’t be tomorrow. Someday, though, you will be. . . _normal,_ again. Dean won’t be able to hurt you anymore, because he will be dead. No longer part of this world. Hn. Whoever thought that that would happen without the aid of aging?”

Harry shares a laugh with himself, smiling gleefully. He’s been waiting for this. Waiting for the moment, where he can rid Dean of this world, and go back to _normal._

Casting one last glance at the unconscious, elevated form, Harry heads up the stairs, settling himself on the couch, completely relaxed. He knows what to do from here. All he needs is for Dean to show up for it all to begin.

Harry feels a rumbling in his pocket. Curious, he slides his phone out, and swipes to answer.

“Dean Winchester has been sighted. He’s just pulled up outside. Waiting for your call, Sir.”

Harry grins. “Watch your steps. Sedate him, and then bring him to me.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Ending the call, Harry settles his phone back in his pocket. “Hey, James. Dean Winchester is enroot.”

“Are you sure we can’t take out the giant as well?” James suggests, cradling his broken wrist, venom in his eyes. “He’s not exactly stable.”

Harry glares at the other man. “Those are not our orders, James. Sam has had a rough time of it lately. He just needs to find his way back to the light, and killing him won’t accomplish that.”

Huffing, James settles himself in to the opposing seat, stilling his nerves. “All I’m saying is, Harry—the guy might be beyond saving.”

“Sam was a good man before. He will be that again one day. I’m sure of it,” Harry denies, running a hand through his dishevelled hair, caressing the cross around his neck with the other.

“You can’t save everyone, man. Sometimes, you just have to let shit go—“

“That’s not going to happen. I have Dean Winchester right where I want him, and once he’s dealt with, I’ll begin searching for the right people for the job to cure Sam Wesson. It’s the least I can do, after all.”

James frowns. “I’m not comfortable with this. If Dean is as clever and psychotic as you think, why not just get them to end him there and then?” he proposes, fear still clinging to his skin from Dean’s project.

Harry waves his hand in dismissal. “I’ve bided my time for what feels like centuries waiting for this moment. I want to have the privilege of looking Dean Winchester in the eyes, as I put a bullet in his head,” he explains, unable to comprehend how James just can’t seem to _get_ that he needs this.

“Whatever you say, man. I’ll back your play, but I don’t really want to be within a foot of that crazy mother-fucker, to be honest,” James informs him, wincing as a jab of pain fires through his severely damaged limb.

Harry flashes him a look of sympathy. “It will heal, James. And, I don’t blame you. Most people go running at the mere mention of the man, so I am very grateful to you, and those that have stuck by my side all of these years,” he says, splaying his legs out, and laying back against the head of the couch, wondering how much longer he’s going to have to wait.

“At first, I had been sceptical. Something about your confidence helped me to believe that we might actual—“

James’s speech is rudely interrupted by the ringing in Harry’s pocket. “Hold that thought,” Harry says with a point of his finger to the ceiling, retrieving his phone. His men must be calling him to let him know that they have Dean in their custody, ready to bring him here.

As soon as he connects the call, a deep, gravelly voice he doesn’t recognise speaks through the phone. “All your men are dead,” it says, and Harry freezes for a mere instant, immediately coming to the conclusion that this is Dean Winchester. He’s _speaking_ to Dean Winchester.

Putting on a calm façade, Harry tries for nonchalance. “You can’t be serious. All of my men are armed, and there’s enough to take out the Russian Mafia—“

“There _was_ enough. Not anymore,” Dean cuts him off, tone bland and thoroughly bored.

Harry feels bile rising in his throat. Every single one of his men are. . . dead? Sixty men that believed in him. . . All gone? And because of one person? This is impossible. This can’t be happening! It just can’t. His men were supposed to incapacitate Dean, and drag him here against his will. Harry is full of remorse. This is all _his_ fault. Nothing that he says or does will ever loosen the damage that he has done to countless mothers and children—

“Sorry to interrupt your guilt party of one, but I’m not in the mood to stand in silence. Tell me where Sam is. The sooner you tell me, the sooner you can die for your _sins._ It’s really a win, win situation. You have Bobby to thank for that,” Dean explains smoothly, his voice so full of honesty and belief that Harry nearly projectiles from both ends of his body.

Harry’s about to think of something, when Dean once again cuts off his thoughts. “Oh, never mind. Dumb ass has location finder on his contacts. That’s handy. See you soon, dead man.”

The phone goes quiet. Harry’s heart stops for a few seconds. James is looking at him like he’s as pale as he feels. All of the confidence that he had drains out of him instantaneously. Dean took them all out. He didn’t break a sweat, from the sounds of things. Harry has never been more terrified in his life. What is he _supposed_ to do now?

“Harry, what the hell is going on? You look like you just went ten rounds with the big C!” James yells in his face, shaking his shoulders.

“He. . . Killed them all, James. . . Mathew, Simon, Greg, Phil, Sanjay. . . All of them. . . Dead,” Harry barely gets out through a whisper.

James goes stark white. “He’s not sedated? What did he say, Harry? What did he _say?”_

Harry sags against the couch. “He’s on his way.”

“What? No, that can’t be right—“

“It’s what he said, and I believe him,” Harry assures dejectedly, gripping James’s good wrist. “Get out while you still can, James. Please. . . I don’t want your blood on my hands as well.”

James narrows his eyes. “This was not your fault, Harry! That psychopath killed them all. Not you—“

“I convinced them to join me—“

“They chose to join you, man,” James snaps. “ _I_ chose to join you.”

“All of those people, and. . .”

James slaps him round the face. “Pull yourself together, Harry. We don’t have time for you to fall apart. You still have Sam downstairs. You can still use him to get what you want. Let’s drag him up here, put him on display—we need to cut him up a little, so that Dean knows we’re serious,” James proposes, pulling Harry to his feet. “This isn’t over yet. Come on!”

In the next five minutes, they’ve done exactly that. Sam is now spread out on the table, thin trails of blood running down the lines of his half naked body. James did the cutting, periodically delivering another slap to Harry’s face to snap him the fuck out of it, which Harry appreciates, rubbing the sore spot.

James’s eagerness to see this through, and to not leave him is starting to instil confidence in Harry once again. He cocks his gun, and positions it in Sam’s forced open mouth, waiting for Dean Winchester to burst through the door.

“We can do this, Harry. We can put an end to him—you said that Sam means a lot to Dean. . . Surely he won’t do anything with Sam’s life at risk?” James’s asks, eyebrow raised.

Harry swallows. “We can only hope, James.”

Each passing second feels like an hour to the two men. There’s fear surrounding them, even with their best efforts to shove it to the back of their minds. They simply cannot help but quake in their boots. Dean Winchester took out sixty men in the space of ten minutes. They’re just two people, and they’re going to come face to face with a real predator. One on one, they understand that they wouldn’t stand a chance. That is clear from current events. With Sam as their leverage, they may actually be able to achieve something here. All they can rely on is their faith that Dean Winchester wouldn’t come all of this way for someone that he’s not interested in getting back.

Stilling their breaths as something metal jiggles in the locked door, Harry and James share a look with each other. A nod is passed between them, a silent agreement that it’s time—that whatever happens today, they got closer than anyone ever did in apprehending this psychopath, and some part of them should be proud of that.

The lock clicks, signalling its submission. It echoes through their ears like a song that they just can’t seem to get out of their heads. Added fear bubbles up inside them as the door is slowly nudged open, a bloody form appearing in the entrance way. The sight nearly makes Harry bring up his lunch. All of that blood. . . The blood of his men. . .

“One of you must the dead man that I spoke to on the phone,” Dean remarks casually, shifting his pointed finger to either one of them. He stalks in to the establishment as if it belongs to him, shrugging off his ruined jacket. “Don’t worry about the bill. It’s way past its sell by date,” he mutters, throwing it over an open chair, taking in the rest of the room. A glimmer of _something_ sweeps through his eyes, when he notices Sam’s passed out canvas on the table top.

Harry feels hope breeching through the dark doubt in his heart.

“Buddy, if you pull that trigger. . . You’re going to be wishing you were dead long before I’m done with you.”

“The cards aren’t really in your favour here, though, are they, Dean Winchester?” Harry deflects, mustering as much confidence as he can into his speech. He can’t afford Dean catching onto the fact that he’s mentally shitting himself with each nano-second that Dean’s eyes remain on his own.

James backs him up. “I wouldn’t be making threats, when Sam here is only seconds from dying,” he adds, betraying the fear that he feels all over with a smirk.

Dean seems to think on that for a moment, scratching at the dried blood mixed in to his stubble. “Hm. I think I’ll put you in an acid bath, Chuckles. Peel off every inch of your skin, until there’s nothing but bone left,” he muses, unperturbed.

Narrowing his eyes, James reaches for the gun, shoving it further into Sam’s mouth. “Say another word about that, and I swear to God I will pull the trigger, you son of a fucking bitch!” James yells, fire in his eyes.

A brief stint of alarm flashes through Dean frame, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“He really _does_ mean something to you, doesn’t he? You don’t want to see him die, huh? If that’s the case,” James pauses, snatching his cuffs off his belt loop, throwing them over to Dean. “Cuff yourself to that bar, and don’t try anything funny.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Cupcake,” Dean drawls, catching the cuffs with ease. He moves over to the towel rack, binding himself in place. “You know my ad said that bondage will cost you extra. I don’t come cheap, so you better be equipped with a lot of zeros.”

James rolls his eyes in disdain. “Shut your mouth—“

“Or what?” Dean taunts. “You’ll shut it for me?” he adds, with a wink.

Taking control of the situation before James loses his temper, Harry ambles over to Dean, trying for casual. He can see in Dean’s eyes that he’s failed.

“Voyeur, huh? Well, I guess if you’re not joining in, I won’t charge you. Then again, I am a once in a life time treat, so maybe I should,” Dean cajoles, licking his lips. “You’d have more fun watching me with Sammy, though. I’d pay big money to see it. I can imagine others would, too.”

Harry frowns. “You won’t be doing anything with Sam Wesson ever again,” he insists, straightening his tie for something to do with his hands. He can’t let Dean see that he’s shaking.

Dean’s jokester mask drops completely, a look of _nothing_ replacing it. “You _touched_ him. Regardless of what happens here, I will kill you. Regardless of what you do to Sammy, I will kill you. How slowly and painfully relies purely on Sam’s survival in all of this,” Dean explains, pausing to release a lethargic yawn. “I know that you’re not going to kill Sam. Once you do, what do you have left, huh? You’d have nothing to keep me subdued. Nothing to stop me from ripping you apart. Nothing to stop me from slicing you up in to teeny tiny pieces—maybe I’ll scatter them across the globe, or throw them in a wood-chipper for that extra effect. After all, what comes out the other end would seem fitting, as it’s just how small you seem in my eyes.”

Harry swallows. Dean’s right, of course. But there’s no plan B. This is plan B. There’s nothing else that Harry can do. He’s not sure how long the four men will stay in this room, standing their grounds. Waiting for the other one to slip up in some way, a way that gives them the opening that they need to strike.

Harry could aim the gun at Dean. . . He’s not so sure that Dean wouldn’t figure out a way to dodge the bullet, retrieve the gun, and turn it on him. Dean’s not a predictable man. That’s what’s so difficult about this situation. James is clearly ready to pump him full of lead, but Harry’s not so sure that’s the best course of action. For all they know, Dean could just be trying to rile them up—take away their focus, in order to gain that _opening._

Dean Winchester is a predator. Top of the food chain. And they are his prey. Bottom of the food chain.

“Ah, morning sunshine,” Dean husks, eyes intent on the sudden _awake_ form on the table.

James manages to get out a startled yelp before his good wrist is snapped out of its socket, much like the other one. He howls in pain, gun dropping from his limp fingers instantly. Sam uses the gun to knock James unconscious with a fierce blow, not giving Harry any chance to recover his bearings, as Sam hurls the gun with an almighty spin right at the centre of Harry’s forehead, dimming the lights in his eyes, as well.

The last thing Harry’s ears pick up before he passes out is, “’bout time you woke up, sleeping beauty.”

Bobby can’t tear his eyes away from the screen. As much as he wants to, he just can’t.

“No, please! Stop! Stop, please!” Harry wails, beaten and bloody, strips of flesh curling over as Dean shreds the skin with a potato peeler.

“I’m begging you. . . Just kill me!” James sobs, face deteriorating from the boiling hot water flirting with his facial features, Sam’s placid lips not twitching once at the pain that he’s inflicting.

Bobby finds himself begging along with them—begging for it all to just be over. The camera suddenly shifts, Dean’s face appearing in the shot, bloody grin stretching his lips.  

“You’re next, Bobby.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOPE YOU ENJOYED IT! :D


	32. Zero Hesitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam are on their way to kill Bobby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took SOOO long. I've had a lot of stuff to do lately, and whenever I had time to write it, I was just so tired. 
> 
> Hope you haven't lost faith in me!
> 
> I was originally going to draw this chapter out... But I listened to the characters, and how they would go about this, and this is what I came up with. ;D

They’re on their way to Bobby, burning rubber, as they barrel down the highway, with no regards to the speed limit or the other drivers on the road. Dean’s not slowing down now. He’s missed his chance twice. There’s no way in Hell that he’s going to allow the man to slip through his fingers a third time. Dean has to play it carefully. Bobby succeeded in waking up the other Sam that _had_ long since died, which created a lot of needless effort on Dean’s end. For the upcoming event, Dean can’t underestimate the forensics expert. From what he gathered from Sam, Bobby had been the closest person to him—like a Father. A bond like that can be hard to shatter completely. Dean’s not planning on stretching this out longer than he has to. They’ve already been through the foreplay, and now they just need to reach the impending climax.

Bobby is going to die, and that’s all that matters. Afterwards, Dean will leave—with Sam--, and Bobby will be a distant memory in his rear-view mirror.

Dean senses that Sam is staring at him intently from the passenger seat, eyes full of something that Dean doesn’t quite have the patience to discern right now. He needs to remain focused on executing Bobby. He’s been wanting this since Sam spilled the beans about the man, and nothing is going to get in his way of that.

“Dean,” Sam says with a purpose, large hand sliding along Dean’s jean-clad leg, soiled with dried blood. Dean hadn’t been thinking about bringing a change of clothes when he headed out earlier today. The only thing that had been on his mind had been getting Sam back. Nothing else even breached his subconscious for more than a second. Dean thinks it also might be nice to experience the look of pure horror on Bobby’s face, when he realizes that he’s solely responsible for all the pain and suffering those men had to experience. Usually, Dean likes to toy with his food. Throw a taunt here and there, mock them for being so weak and pathetic. In that instance, where he could practically smell Sam somewhere in that house, he had no time for games. Dean had had no patience for games. Each stab of his knife in to a warm body barely registered in his mind, before he extracted the blade, slaying his next victim.

“Dean. . . Please,” Sam repeats, unclasping the button on Dean’s jeans, hand edging through the space created, feeling Dean’s hardness. Dean didn’t make this easier on himself, considering he rarely ever wears underwear.

“Sammy. . . Baby, I’m driving here. We’re going to kill Bobby, remember?” Dean reminds him, aiming his words at the road.

Sam swallows audibly. “I need to feel you, Dean.”

Dean will never be able to get used to the rush that sentence gives him. He would like nothing more than to stop the car, shove Sam in the back on his hands and knees, and pump him full of come, but they don’t have _time_ for that.

“We’ve already given that asshole a head start, Sammy,” Dean counters.

“Please, Dean. . . Just. . . Even just to suck your cock. I need to feel all of you,” Sam begs, slowly gliding his fingers along Dean’s cock, now out in the open. Dean catches Sam’s mouth watering out of the corner of his eye, and he would never forgive himself if he ever managed to say no to _that._

Dean pulls off the highway, making a few turns until he reaches a road. He pulls up on the side, shutting off the engine. Folding himself out of the car, Dean motions with his head at the alleyway, Sam instantly getting with the program, following Dean in to the narrow space.

“Fuck,” Dean breathes, when Sam shoves him against the wall, falling to his knees immediately. He pulls Dean’s pants down around his ankles, taking Dean’s throbbing cock in to his mouth in the next second, sucking Dean down to the root with a practiced ease. “Gotta make this quick, baby boy. This ain’t amateur hour,” Dean grits, thrusting his hips forward, effectively shoving his cock down Sam’s throat. Sam swallows around him repeatedly, trying to wring his orgasm out of him as quickly as he possibly can.

Dean wishes that they had time to kill. There are a lot things that he didn’t get to do before Sam had been unceremoniously taken away from him. There are a lot of things that Dean hadn’t managed to clear up with Sam for the same reason. That’s for another time, however, when they’re not on the clock.

Breathing out a satisfied breath, Dean tightens his grip in Sam’s hair, ascending the skin of Sam’s head with his effort. With one more long suck, Dean reaches his limit, coming down Sam’s throat. Sam swallows it all, not allowing a single drop to pass his lips, tucking Dean back in his jeans immediately after. Dean smirks smugly. It looks like Sam got more out of that than he did. One of the many things that Dean has come to love about Sam during their time together.

“Do ya’ need to jerk off real quick, Sammy?” Dean questions, assuming that Sam would like a few seconds to himself to reach his own release. Sam shakes his head in the negative, shamelessly admitting that he already got there. Dean shoves down the urge to slam Sam against the wall, and make him feel it for days, commanding Sam to get his ass back in the car now, as they have shit to get done with.

Once they’re back in the car, Dean leaves the small town in their dust. With both their libidos satisfied for the time being, he has more head space to focus on where they need to be, and where they need to go. He should be worried about the hold that Sam has over him, but he’s not. Somehow, he just knows that Sam will never abuse it.

There’s something in the back of his mind, niggling at his conscience, telling him that he’s done something wrong here. Dean doesn’t understand where that’s coming from. What could he have possibly done wrong? He saved Sam, killed all those assholes who dared to get in the way of them, and now he’s off to slaughter the main element of their troubles. As far as Dean’s concerned, he’s done _everything_ right. Then what is this crippling sensation that’s filling him with self-hate? He hasn’t hated himself since he was a little kid, and hadn’t yet figured out that he could do whatever the hell he wanted to, and screwed the consequences.

“Everything all right, Dean?” Sam asks, and he looks so sincere, that Dean almost wants to bury his head in Sam’s neck, knowing that Sam will know how to make everything okay again.

What is _wrong_ with him?

“I’m fine, Sam,” Dean lies, waving him off.

Ordinarily in life, you have the people that will just go in without a thought as to what they’re going to do next, and then the other people, who like to plan out every detail of their mission. Dean is in between these two ideals, ready and willing to just charge in while also assuring the self-confidence first that he knows what he’s doing, and that he’s going to succeed by the end of it.

Dean frowns, shifting to the next gear. He entertains the idea that this sudden anger towards himself could be due to the fact that he didn’t stir when someone broke into his house and nabbed Sam away from him. That’s a possibility. Dean finds it hard to believe himself, that he heard _nothing._ Sensed _nothing,_ and woke up to an empty bed. He hadn’t been able to help that encroaching feeling dissolving his skin, forcing him to get to grips with the fact that Sam may have just walked out on him. Nevertheless, the thought hadn’t stayed long. Dean has done everything right up to this point. He knows what he’s doing, and he’s certain that Sam is smitten with him. Even if Sam was offered an out, he wouldn’t accept it. Sam is far too fucked up in the head that he can barely make decision for himself.

Dean relents, summarizing that right now isn’t the best time for this. After all, he needs to stay focused. They have someone to kill. Someone who has been a thorn in Dean’s side for far too long now. Dean’s thinking of this as another test for Sam. If his fiancé—isn’t that an odd thing to envision--, is able to administer the final blow to Bobby Singer, then Dean will have zero reason to have doubts about Sam’s commitment here.

“I want you to kill him,” Dean says bluntly, a small thrill giving him goose-bumps as the sign for Sioux Falls comes in to view.

Sam turns his head to stare at Dean. “You want me to—“

“Kill Bobby, yeah.”

Dean’s tone is absolute.

“Okay, sure,” Sam agrees, nimble fingers quivering in his pockets, due to concealed excitement. This is the first time that Dean has trusted him to take care of one of their toys, and he’s not going to let him down. Sam would sooner die than disappoint Dean. Not now, when Sam _needs_ to prove to Dean that there is no one else, that there is _nowhere_ else for Sam to be. Nowhere else that Sam _wants_ to be.

Several turns later, Dean shuts off the engine, grinning ear to ear, as he pulls the keys out of the ignition, creaking open his door. Dean pauses for one second, waiting for Sam to do the Sam. Sam practically falls out of the car in his effort to be hasty, righting himself on his feet, leaning over the top of the car, a smile on his face. Dean connects their eyes across _Baby,_ saying without any words that he truly wants to believe that Sam has got this in the bag.

Dean moves to the trunk, regarding Sam over his shoulder, as he grabs a couple of supplies, handing them over to Sam. He takes them in hold, anticipation building, a pressure in his ears that almost sounds like the enthusiasm of the blades covered in leather, just waiting to be set free and unleash Hell.

“All right. Let’s do this,” Dean declares, closing the trunk and locking up the Impala. Dean feels giddy with arousal, more than ready to watch Sam tear Bobby limb from limb, ridding him from their lives once and for all.

Sam nods his head, taking a breath to stomp down his eagerness. He needs to have a level head. They can’t afford the risk of Bobby getting away again. He knows what they both look like, and his disappearance could definitely be a problem for them, something that they would rather not have to deal with. If Sam fucks this up, Dean’s going to have a new boat-load of stress to deal with. Dean deserves to just relax and kick back, not be imprisoned by worry and anxiety, just waiting for the boys in blue to break into their house.

This is it. He’s not going to fuck this up.

Dean doesn’t bother knocking the door. He picks the lock in record time, stepping into the house. Sam follows after him, closing the door behind him. They wouldn’t want any witnesses that could pin them to this location, after all.

“Look-y what we have here, Sammy. Our friend hasn’t moved from where I left him. What a good guy, don’t you think, Sam?” Dean taunts, convinced that Bobby is just pretending to be dead to the world, since he can hear Bobby’s heart slamming against his ribcage.

Sam grins. “Such a good guy, Dean. Really. So well-behaved.”

They can both see that Bobby is shaking. Dean and Sam don’t know who he’s trying to fool here. They’re going to kill him either way, whether or not he plays dead, or has some long-winded monologue for them to hear. Dean’s already really bored with this. He doesn’t particularly enjoy playing with food that doesn’t want to defend themselves. He’s been in the game far too long now for _that_ to satiate even the smallest percentage of his hunger. With Sam still being new to the gig, he’ll get a high out of a kill like this. Sometimes, Dean does miss those days. When everything was just easier. He could go to a bar, take someone out to the back alley and slice their throat, which would keep him happy for at least a little while. Now, something like that—to Dean—is the equivalent of throwing a piece of crumbled up piece of paper in the trash can.

Sighing lethargically, Dean clicks his fingers in front of Bobby’s face. When that gets no response, Dean backhands the man, gripping his chin and forcing Bobby to look at him. He smirks smugly and winks when he gets the reciprocation he was driving towards, dropping Bobby’s defeated head, and stepping back.

“Got any last words?” Dean mutters, not really caring if Bobby has anything to say at all.

Bobby keeps his head low as he replies. “I’ve got nothin’ to say to you, ya’ idjit. But, Sam… I’m sorry that I couldn’t save you. I just want ya’ to know, that I don’t blame _you_ for what you’re about to do,” he clarifies, going still. His body tells the story that he’s just waiting for the end now.

Sam steps up to the plate, tests the weight of the blade in his hand and inclines his head at Dean. Dean juts his chin in affirmation, stuffing his blood-crusted hands inside his jacket pockets, eyes expectant and resolute.

“I don’t really care if you blame me or not,” Sam states simply, driving the blade through the back of Bobby’s neck, blood spatters dotting his face, due to the force of the blow.

Dean looks down at the blade lodged in Bobby’s neck, crimson liquid blending into the collar of Bobby’s shirt, most likely making its way down each available surface. Sam actually did that. Just like that. No hesitation. Nothing. Just the need to rid the son of a bitch from this world.

“Sammy?”  Dean calls, far too aroused to see clearly.

Sam swallows the saliva built up in his mouth, turning to face Dean. “Yeah?”

“I need you naked. Now.”

 

 

 

 


	33. Starting Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a boat to a new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TEASER CHAPTER!!!!
> 
> I know, I know. I'm evil. >:3
> 
> Okay, so we're just going to call this a turning point for the boys (what kind, you say? You're going to have to wait and see.), and a lot is going to be happening in the next few chapters. :D 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the new start.

With Bobby and all that mess behind them, Dean and Sam can finally get back to their lives. Sure, it only deterred them for a couple of days, but that’s time wasted in their books, and Dean’s going to prevent something like that from ever happening again. No one is going to put their hands on Sam while he’s around. Dean will make sure of it. Anyone that is stupid enough to go against his wishes is going to experience the same grief that what’s their faces and Bobby had to deal with for daring to mess with them.

Dean’s excited about the future. He has only one thing that he wants to focus on his life, and it gives him that sense of stability that he’s been craving all these years. He never knew that it existed. Dean convinced himself that he would live his life as just a single entity, with no one else a blip on his radar. He would use them for his own personal gain, but nothing more. Sam has changed that view that he engraved into his own soul. Sam somehow managed to open him up piece by piece, repairing the scarred tissue along the way. Dean believes that he truly has developed into a different person, and it’s all because of Sam. The one person in the world that he wants to commit himself to—body and soul—and give his life to protect.

Dean’s not one to swear oaths to people. Promises mean nothing. They’re just wasted air polluting the oxygen that they desperately need to survive. The difference here is that his words are not empty. His words are absolute. His commitment to Sam will never be severed—not now, not ever.

Planning a wedding isn’t either of their fortes. Dean wouldn’t call himself one of those people that have been dreaming about their big day their entire life, and neither would Sam, from the looks of things. They’re both from very different walks of life. Dean spent his younger days being molested, and then finding his true calling. Sam spent his younger days in bliss until the night he watched Dean kill his mother and challenge him to find him one day. There had been no time in their day to day lives to think about marriage, or even settling down with someone that means something to them.

Yes, this is partly a way to keep not-Sammy at bay. Dean’s not going to pretend that that doesn’t play a huge part in this whole fiasco. Still, he’s truly looking forward to hearing Sam pronounced as Sam Winchester. He can mark his name into Sam’s skin all he wants, but seeing the documentation of it is just going to be the icing on the proverbial cake.

Cake is something that Dean actually wants at the wedding. He has a sweet tooth. Pie would be a better substitute, but he’d like to have at least one tradition in there. He’ll be getting himself some pie afterwards, but that’s not really the point here. The point is to get in, get married, fuck like rabbits, and then start the first day of the rest of their lives.

It’s been a while since Dean’s been on a boat. The last time he stepped foot on one, he used it as an escape-root from the F.B.I. Earlier on in his ministrations, Dean had gotten sloppy a few times, which gave them a chance to trace him. Back in those days, he did a lot of avoiding them. These days, he has the confidence to walk right up to them and put them in their places. He’s not sure where it comes from. Experience, maybe. It gives you a real confidence boost when you take out a whole Alpha Squadron with nothing but your trusty blade, using the obstacles around you to wain off the bullets—not to mention securing a vest from one of the lifeless forms on the floor to make it a little easier on yourself.

Dean remembers the rush that he had felt sprinting up to the harbour and leaping on to the back of the boat. He can’t remember how he convinced the captain that he got caught up with the law based on his appearance—that he resembled someone that they wanted dead. Dean had used his acting skills to convince the crew members on board that he was not a threat. It took everything that he had in him not to slaughter them all before they got to the next harbour, but he couldn’t risk anything at that point when he had already sustained an injury on the side of his neck from a bullet just barely avoiding his nape.

Travelling across the ocean is Sam’s idea. After the whole shit storm that they’ve been dealing with, he thought it best that they get away from it all, especially considering they’re not sure just who knows where they used to dwell, now. For a moment, it had been hard for Dean to walk away from the place that he’s been conducting his private business in for years now. Nevertheless, all things must come to an end eventually, and after some rape fantasy roleplay, they were all good to go. Before they left, they wiped out every trace of their existence pertaining to that place. They’re not going to be going back there, so why cling to the past?

The new plan for them is to start up somewhere new. The greatest act that the Devil pulled off had been convincing everyone around him that he wasn’t, in fact, the Devil. Their plan is similar to this. Dean wants to start fresh. To start fresh, it’s crucial that they blend in. So, when they get to their new home, they’re going to have to become a part of it. Getting their rocks off will still be in the cards—they’re just going to have to cover their tracks much more efficiently than they did before.

They can’t get greedy. They can’t be sloppy. They can’t target those that will be missed too much. The hardest part will be not having a challenge. Dean and Sam aren’t too proud to admit to themselves that that’s going to suck the most. However, it’s time to play smart. They have a wedding to plan, and that means meeting new people. That means gathering witnesses. That means fashioning this whole new life for them, where no one knows who they truly are, what they’re capable of, or just how terrified they should be to come into contact with them.

If anything, it’s more thrilling. Hiding in plain sight. Watching, observing, while fooling everyone into believing that they’re just as normal as the local store clerk. At the end of it all, if everything goes according to plan, they’ll have a wedding extravaganza—one that will not be forgotten for a _single_ day.

 _It’s gonna be epic._  


	34. Mr and Mr Who?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have been here for a week now. They have jobs, things are going steady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to let you know, this is a short one because, well... Things are starting anew now for them, so getting the general idea of what is going on is coming piece by piece. I hope you're still enjoying the ride, though. ;D 
> 
> Plus, I gave you two in a day. XD

Not surprisingly, blending in wasn’t that hard. Dean’s been charming the pants off people—literally and figuratively—for years now, and Sam’s a natural. Dean knew that he would be. If he’s going to bank on anyone in life, it’s going to be Sam. The first thing that they needed to do when they got here was get jobs. Sam asked around town after the first few hours of being there, and managed to pick up shifts at a local café, while Dean put his many hours of fixing Baby up to good use, procuring a job as a mechanic at a garage a few roads down. The money isn’t fantastic, but that’s not really an issue. It’s all about creating a new life.

Eventually, Sam got up the courage when things were going well between the two of them to ask Dean how he actually afforded anything. Identity theft had been the answer. Not the run-of-the-mil-likely-to-get-caught-if-card-used-thus-leaving-a-digital-footprint type of identity theft, but rather the type that Sam would never have been able to track down had he been working those types of cases in his day.

Getting jobs was a cinch. Moving in was easy, as they had nothing with them. The place they bought came with the things that they would need to live here, but they had to spring for something a little more casual in order to keep up appearances, which is fine by the both of them. Even when Sam was the chief of police, he never had a flashy pad or an expensive car. None of that meant anything to him, as the only thing he cared about at the time had been tracking down the man that he now shares his life with. Irony is interesting, as the song goes.

They’ve been here for a few weeks now. People around them have been casting eyes on them every now and then. It’s clear that they’re just checking out the new meat, trying to get a read on just what type of people they are. Which is fine, as it’s what the both of them want. They want people to come up with their own theories about the new guys—the lust-laden stares are the only part that’s making it increasingly more difficult to not blow their cover.

Neighbours have come to greet them with the traditional _aloha,_ followed by some sort of fruit platter that neither of them are interested in. The gossip around town is that Dean and Sam are best friends living together. That’s just because they don’t want to admit to themselves that none of them have a chance with either of them. Unless Dean giving it to Sam good in front of their lounge window with the curtains open, lights on in the background, and everything permitted for their eyes to see _isn’t subtle enough._ Just because they’re _different people_ now doesn’t mean that they can’t have aggressive sex in their house. Normal people like sex. It’s not a red flag.

So far, they haven’t secured any _friends._ Or there could be people that like them and want to get to know them, but they haven’t bothered to look past how great they would look staring down the edge of a blade.

Sam’s had some offers to hang out after work. Each time, he calls Dean to ask if that’s something that he should be doing. Dean thinks that it’s not too soon for them to still need time to settle in to their new place, so no drinks once work is done has happened yet. On Dean’s end, he’s learned that the guy that he’s worked with is always having problems with his wife. Problems that Dean could really care less about, considering they’re so petty. He’s smart enough to realise that Nathan is just trying to get sympathy due to the _bro’s before hoes_ code.

Currently, the boys are at a get together. Apparently, once a month the road that they live on host a barbeque out in the street that everyone is invited to. They think it’s bullshit. It’s just a rouse to get them out of their house, so these weasels can _get to know them_ better. There are a few things that back up this assumption: all eyes are on them, the host won’t leave them the hell alone—everyone else is just as surprised as they are to find out about this _great_ tradition of theirs.

“So, Dean, Sam, how are you settling in here? Hawaii treating you good?” Mrs. Humphrey questions, looking to all the world like she wishes she could parent the entire neighbourhood.

“Good, thank you,” Dean replies, short and sweet. What else is there to say, really? He has to pretend like he feels sort of awkward.

“And you, Sam?”

Sam nudges Dean’s shoulder, a patented way of a partner signalling to their significant other to lighten up, or to stop doing that with their face. “It’s really nice here, yeah. People are nice. Work’s fine. It’s all good.”

Mrs. Humphrey practically swoons as she appraises the two of them, strapping men with devilish good looks, who are at this moment in time for her eyes only.

“Well, I’m so glad to hear that. Do either of you. . . have someone back home?”

Sam’s eyebrow raises a fraction when he senses Dean’s hand slipping into his back pocket. He’s interested to see how Dean’s going to answer this one. Their plan is to become different people—to completely recreate themselves--, but Sam’s not so sure that Dean can hold back his signature bluntness.

“No one back home, Mam. We’re engaged, actually,” Dean answers with ease, craning his head to cast a sideways glance at Sam, a curve of his lips birthing a smile that would melt hearts if that were a possibility. Sam returns the look, however tacks on a sceptical eye shift that would lead people watching to believe that he’s not so sure they should be revealing that detail to the rest of the world yet.

“Oh, I see. Well, that’s fantastic. Is that why you moved out here?”

Sam releases a _relived_ breath, breaking the eye contact with Dean for a moment to turn his gaze onto Mrs. Humphrey, gratitude glinting in his ever changing irises that interpret his thanks that she’s not giving them a hard time for finding love.

“Back where we’re originally from, people weren’t so accepting,” Sam lies airily, leaving the melodrama for the wannabes back in high school where they belong. “I’m just glad that we’re away from all that.”

Mrs. Humphrey looks like she wants to offer them a hug. Dean would really rather she not. Even with this act, he doesn’t have to be the type of person that enjoys unnecessary physical contact.

“If you don’t mind, Mam, Sam doesn’t like to talk about it,” Dean interjects before she can ask any more questions. Dean doesn’t doubt that Sam could fashion a believable tale—he just thinks that this is what he would say if he were the person he’s playing. Protecting his fiancé or whatever.

“I understand completely. Well, I hope you enjoy the party. I’ve gotta get back to my Husband before he oversteps his bounds with the meat again. I swear, that man is one strip of bacon away from an early grave,” Mrs. Humphrey states, waving minutely as she traverses to the other side of the road, hands on her hips as she catches Mr. Humphrey about to bite into a burger that may as well be a live pig.

Soon, they’ll be the talk of the town. Hot gay couple that moved in from out of town. _Aren’t they hot? Why are the good looking one’s always gay? Oh, my God, I wonder why they had to leave town?_ _I heard that Sam, the tall, dark and handsome one got jumped in an alley somewhere, and that his parents tossed him out on his ass just for being gay—Yeah, well I heard that Sam used to be in an abusive relationship, and that Dean saved his life. That he loved Sam from the moment that he met him—Who did you guys hear that from? I was told that the two of them were gay porn stars, and people in their old town found out about it—You shouldn’t believe everything everyone tells you, jeez._

All of that going to be _just_ delightful.


	35. Hunger Pains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have been here for two weeks now. It's time that they did something about their appetite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, it didn't take me months on end to update again! I promised and I delivered. And, AND--it's more than 1K, so enjoy. XD
> 
> I really hope that people aren't thinking that this has gotten sloppy... That would be awful.

At some point during his younger days, Sam _must_ have been some form of child actor. Dean can’t believe how quickly Sam’s managed to have all of these people eating out of the palm of his hands. Sam’s phone just _keeps_ buzzing. It’s driving Dean up the wall. How is he supposed to remain calm and focused, when all he can seem to hear is _that_ thrumming around on the table as if it needs to alert everyone to its attention five seconds between mouthing off the last time.  

Dean has _friends_ now, as well. Luckily, they don’t text him all minutes of the day. What could these people even be saying? Didn’t they get to say all they wanted to Sam when he was at work with them? Sure, no. Okay. They have to take up _more_ of Sam’s time. If Dean couldn’t see the looks of annoyance on Sam’s face before he goes to thumb a reply, he would say that Sam’s enjoying this a little too much.

“Sammy, just tell them you’re busy!” Dean snaps, unapologetically, resisting the urge to slam his fist down on the table for that added effect or him meaning business.

Sam lifts his head slightly, easily agreeing with Dean’s order. He shuts his phone off and pockets it with a sigh of relief. Apparently, some people just don’t know when to shut the hell up. Yes, they’re planning a wedding. Yes, they want people there. Yes, they’ll probably be invited to fill up the numbers, but do they have to shove wedding catalogues in his face, and constantly send him pictures of things that _should absolutely be at the wedding?_

When Sam returns home to Dean, he’s not their _friend_ anymore. Just someone itching to drive a knife through their throats.

“I’m guessing you don’t get bothered with all this stuff, then?”

Dean shakes his head, finishing off his beer. “Nah. Just when they need someone to cover for them.”

Sam ponders that, twitches his lips, and then frowns. He knows that Dean can feel his eyes on him. He’s not being subtle about this at all. It’s something that they’ve been avoiding, as they don’t know the area _that_ well yet, and so far haven’t been able to dabble in their ordinary extracurricular activities. Both of them are at the end of their tethers, but having either one of them close is making it easier not to snap.

“You hungry for my thing or the other thing?” Dean questions without looking up from the local news.

“Both. Other thing has dibs. You?” Sam replies, longing for Dean to have a plan mapped out in his head for them to get some action tonight.

“ _Both_ can wait until later, then,” Dean dismisses without a trace, or room for argument, flinging the finished article into the trash.

Sam’s shoulders slouch in defeat. He’s fine. He can wait. It’s not that long. Dean said later, and that could mean later _tonight_ , for all Sam knows. If Dean were slightly less of a wall, Sam wouldn’t have such a hard time trying to decipher him.

“How are you not shooting up the streets? It’s been two weeks.”

“Fantasies. Will power. You. Any more questions?” Dean hits the ball back in Sam’s lane, subconsciously transitioning over to the top drawer in their kitchenette to grab _Sabre—_ ironically not a sabre—which he’s had since he started out in this lifestyle. A switchblade.

“But you do _want_ to—“

“Of course I do, Sammy. This ain’t my first rodeo _fasting._ It sucks ass, but you just gotta deal with it until you’re fully ready to start dropping bodies, discretely.”

“And you’re—“

“Yes. Tonight. Okay? I’ve worked everything out. Just trust me, baby.”

Sam knows that Dean’s not likely to make light of his craft, so he has to assume that Dean’s not having him on here. Dean’s been in this game a lot longer than he has. Far be it for Sam to think for one second that Dean’s not chomping at the bit over this. Back home, Dean had all he needed. He knew the area—he knew what to do and when to do it. . . The world was his oyster, so to speak. Here, though, it’s different. They’re foreigners here. They don’t know the best places. The people that inhabit this dump are a close-knit group, so if locals started randomly biting the bullet shortly after Dean and Sam showed up unannounced. . . Regardless of how moronic the both of them believe these rejects to be, it’s not hard for anyone to put that together. 

In order for them to start something here, things have to be done right. They have to be handled properly, with the correct procedures, and not to mention non-existent evidence. Sam’s confident that he doesn’t have to worry. There’s not a chance that Dean would have gone on as long as he did back home without the know-how to make everything disappear, while leaving nothing behind.

Dean asked Sam to trust him, and that’s just what he’s going to do. When he first started to accept the fact that he enjoys this life. . . That it’s something that he was always supposed to incorporate in to his life, Dean warned Sam that with him being a new player in the game, that going without for a while when the rush of the hunt, the thrill of holding the life of someone in his hands, the cold, desperate last breaths exiting his victims’ bodies, would leave him with a craving that could quite easily surpass the soul-crushing withdrawal symptoms of an addict on the path to ridding their body of the merciless _heroine._

Sam felt it before. Back in those no-name towns, when all he could see was rivulets of blood casting off on their journeys down the tatty wallpaper that was barely holding itself together. Sam was repeatedly hit with memories of the blood spatter from a jagged journey of his blade across an unwilling throat—small, warm, crimson speckles that would change his breathing to that of a marathon contender passing the finish line. Attacking _himself_ really had been the only thing stopping him from going against one of Dean’s orders.

Resulting to self-harming seemed like a far better choice than seeing the disappointment and outrage on Dean’s face if Sam had gone out on a hunt, and coincidentally pulled off some sloppy work, due to being under the influence of something toxic.

Hopefully, he won’t have to result to that again. Though, it’s fair to say that he’s getting close.

 

A few hours later, Sam understands what the plan is. There’s a mixer tonight for anyone that wants to come. It’s in a central part of town, where there’s lots of room for people to stand around, dance, sway to the music with a drink in their hands, and have a good time. Plenty of people are going to be in the same area, which means it’s going to be hard to keep a head count of everyone in the vicinity, which is going to be a crucial part of their advantage. Dean and Sam are going to bide their time and wait for the right moment, which Dean will give the signal for. The tricky part is that there’s going to be a lot of law enforcement around the place—makes sense, considering the register of the party. To get around this, they’re going to have to _take turns._ Not for the first part, however to keep up appearances, it’s essential that both their faces are seen at the party by witnesses at different times—being the new guys in town, law enforcement are going to immediately suspect them, taking in to account the low crime rate in this part of the state. Getting spotted together, apart, singularly, enough that they can be placed at the scene when _John Doe_ goes missing, is a sure-fire way for them to gather enough people that can vouch for their whereabouts, as well as keep up appearances in front of their new _friends._

All of this is speculation. There’s no guarantee that any of this will be an issue. Right now, it’s in their best interest to play it smart. After all, when the starving man lost at sea needs to eat, he’s gonna _eat._

To take the edge off before they left for the mixer, Dean blew Sam _hard_ halfway up the stairs, and then Sam rode him at the bottom. If tonight goes off without a hitch, they’ll probably be revisiting those stairs—anywhere they end up—double time.

As soon as they got there, Sam’s _friends_ made their way over, greeting Sam with hugs and smiles. The boys exchanged a look between them that entailed that it would be awesome if their entertainment for tonight could be one of these waste of spaces, though it’s better for _John Doe_ not to have a personal connection to them—work-related or otherwise.

Sherry is a very over-eager girl. She looks like she’s in her own, personal heaven, with front row seats to the hot, new gay couple that are planning to get married, and did she mention that they’re _super_ hot? That’s important, apparently. Sam’s lost count of how many sex-related questions he’s had to dodge over the past few weeks. Sherry doesn’t seem to know when to quit. She wants to know everything, and she wants _details. . ._

_Sure, Shelly, I’ll tell you all you need to know. Dean bites, a lot. He loves to leave his mark. I actually have it scarred on my skin. I can lift my shirt and show it to you, if you want? If that works for you, great. Yeah, so any position is fine. He prefers it when he can look at me, though, especially when we’re doing rape-fantasy. Dean just loves to watch me pretending to be scared out of my mind, on the brink of passing out, and ready to sign my life over to the Devil. What else? Hm. . . We like to play with blood. Each other’s or random people’s—we’re not too fussy when it comes to that, although Dean does fuck like it’s the end of the world and this is his last time when he bites hard enough to break the skin, and some of mine catches the tip of his tongue. He’s an animal, really. And I love every second of it. Anything else you want to know, holler._

When in reality, it’s more along the lines of. . .

 _Dean doesn’t like me talking about it with people._ Bold-faced lie. Dean would pay a sky-writer to detail just every dirty little thing he does to Sam if he could. _He’s reserved, you know? Those moments are for our eyes only._ Dean has thrown Sam in to an alley in plain sight just to have him against the wall right then and there, regardless of who might see them. _He’s protective. He won’t like it if I tell you something, and someone that doesn’t agree with our love approaches him about it._ Understatement. They’d be dead. Shelly wouldn’t want anyone to know if she knew what was best for her. _So, I can’t tell you anything, all right?_ Even this Dean would kill her if she did let something slip, Sam surmises.

Sam shrugs internally. He’s sure that she will meet her demise soon enough.

In order to play the part, the boys spend a while chatting with Sam’s friends. Dean plays the silent-hero type. A man of few words, however blunt is a big part of his personality. Short utterances for answers, takes a lot of effort to find something to share in common with him. Sam contrasts beautifully with the act, giving Dean noticeable nudges of encouragement when Dean blatantly ignores one of his _friends_ aimed questions, and finding ways to defer the conversation to something else instead of keeping the target on Dean’s back.

“Dean, do you mind if I steal Sam for just a quick moment?” Shelly asks sweetly, curling her hand around Sam’s upper-arm.

Dean breathes in calmly, blanking out the image of this insignificant, bottom-feeder touching what _belongs_ to _him,_ and gestures that she doesn’t have to ask him— _she does. Everyone does._

Sam turns a confused frown Dean’s way before being pulled along by Sherry, who appears to be on a mission of her own of some sort.

“Sam, do you really think that Dean’s the one for you?” she inquires, pouting.

“Yeah. Of course,” Sam answers immediately, rethinking the plan to keep the hunt non-personal.

“It’s just that. . . You’re so different. . . You’re kind, talkative, and you have a big heart—Dean’s like the opposite of you.”

Sam grits his teeth. “Opposites attract, you know.”

Sherry sighs forlornly, as if Sam’s just lost and doesn’t really know what he’s doing. “I’m just saying, Sammy, you could do bet—“

“Only Dean can call me that,” Sam interrupts quickly, heart-racing. “Sorry. . . You don’t know anything about us, Sherry. Please, I know what I’m doing.”

With that, Sam walks away before he breaks the rules for the night. It wouldn’t look good if he started cracking Sherry’s head against the nearest tree, now, would it?

Sam gathers that Dean can tell he’s losing it when he returns to his side, which is why they make meeting up with Dean’s _friends_ quick before they excuse themselves.

A short walk past the crowd leads to an area surrounded by trees. Dean spotted people heading that way earlier, few persons at a time. He figures that that’s where they go to inject, snort or smoke the drugs that they smuggled in to this place. Security is tight around here, but there are blind spots. This is their chance to score. Only, they don’t want the type of drug that comes in a baggie. They want the kind that comes in a _cadaver._

As luck would have it, sometimes what happens in the movies, happens in real life. Right now, for example, surfer-boy told his friends to go on ahead without him, that he would be with them in a minute, as he needs to take a leak, and he can’t be bothered to wait until he gets to the designated porter-potties that have been set up for the masses. There’s a long line of them a few yards away from the partying grounds—enough that people wouldn’t be lined up for miles waiting to use one.

The boys wait for surfer-boy to finish with his business. As soon as he’s done, Dean nods his head in confirmation to Sam that now is the time to strike. Sam doesn’t waste another moment. He quickly secures his arm around surfer-boy’s throat, adding just enough pressure to cut off his air supply. It’s not long before surfer-boy’s unconscious weight falls back against his chest.

“This way, Sammy,” Dean instructs, assisting with the transitioning of surfer-boy. They spread the weight between them, avoiding the branches on the ground to prevent unnecessary attention. Soon, they reach a spot that Dean deems ideal. There’s nothing around them for a long stretch—they’re not in anyone’s line of sight, and the ferocity of the bass, along with the DJ’s set offers them the perfect coating of silencers, at the expense of surfer-boy.

Once they deposit surfer-boy on the ground, a swift slap around the face is all it takes for him to come to. A brief moment of silence passes between the three men before surfer-boy clocks on to the fact that he's not high enough for this to be some form of illusion, courtesy of the drugs that he ingested. Fight or flight instinct quickly takes over, and he yells as loudly as he can in his current state for the help that he so desperately needs.

Dean shares a knowing look with Sam, twin smiles on their faces as they lean forward with a single hand cupped over their ears, as if they're trying to block out the rest of the sounds around them in order for what surfer-boy is emitting to register.

"Sorry, man, I can't hear you. You might have to yell a little louder. A microphone could really help you out right now, but it seems that I left mine in my other jacket pocket," Dean says conversationally, lowering to his haunches to gain further audibility. "Oh, it's help you want, huh? Well, I'm fresh out of that. Looks like we've reached an impasse. Sammy, you got anything for our _friend_ here?"

Sam chuckles darkly, revealing the knife that was previously stowed away up his sleeve. It glints in the moonlight as he turns it over in wonderment, his expression contemplative, as if he's actually venturing a plausible idea in which to offer surfer-boy some help.

"As it happens, I'm fresh out of that, too. But, what I do have is this twelve-inch blade that could really do something about the noise pollution in this place."

Dean nods his agreement. "You and your vendetta against pollution. I tell, ya', man, sometimes this guy is like a broken record," Dean mutters, jabbing his thumb in Sam's general direction, looking down at surfer-boy as if trying to interpret _can you believe this guy?_

Surfer-boy goes to scream for help again, but this time Dean's hand covers his mouth. He's not at all cautious about anyone hearing them all the way out here. He's just sick of listening to this guy harp on about the same old thing. Really, he should get some new material, because his _bit_ stinks.

"Now, what good is that gonna do? Are you so high that you haven't noticed that Katy Perry is much louder than you are right now? Why don't you do yourself a favour. Hang on to the oxygen that you have left in your lungs. Hell, whisper under your breath about the mistakes that you've made in life, and what you would do if you had the chance to get away from this to fix them. Maybe you have a girlfriend who you've treated badly. How would you make it up to her? Those things. After all, man, those are your last thoughts. Better make them count."

Dean observes Surfer-boy's eyes flickering back and forth between his reapers. It's clear to him now that he's going to die. There's resignation in his eyes. Dean wishes that he would have put up more of a fight. A struggle would have been nice. Right now, this is going to have to do. He can't be as choosy as he used to be. They're starving. They have been for a while. Sacrifices have to be made until they find a way to access what they need on tap. That's going to come with time. In this moment, he has to feed his fiancé, by any means necessary.

"Sammy, you can have the first cut--"

"No, Dean. You need this more than I do--"

"Cut him. Now," Dean demands, looking over his shoulder at Sam, who's holding the knife like a lifeline.

Sam understands that the sooner he does this, the sooner Dean can feed himself. There's no time to fuss over the details. They've been _hungry_ for too long.

Sam approaches surfer-boy adamantly. He grips the blade in his hands, takes one look at the man he loves--the man that's giving him this; the first cut, sacrificing his own needs for him. . . Sam nods at Dean in thanks, and then rams the knife through Surfer-boy's knee.

They both bask in the scream it produces.


	36. Sammy's on his Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's on break at work. His urges are spiking again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. So, not dead. Uh. . . I have to be honest, this was really hard to write. I know it's not much, but I just finished two stories that I started like 3 years ago in six days, so I kind of feel spent. But I promised myself that I would start finishing shit, so here's the next thing. :D
> 
> After all, I can't start something new if I don't finish my other stories, so YEAH. Okay? XD 
> 
> I think it's important to show that Sam is still new to this sort of thing. He doesn't have the experience with fasting like Dean has. I'll get into that more later, though, when something happens that makes it even harder for them.

Sam's not surprised in the least that they got away with it. If the police round here were smarter than apples, then that may have left room for a little doubt. It hadn't come as a shock to them that they did come by their house to question them, though. Dean said that newcomers are always the first ones that are suspected in cases like this. All they had to do was play the part of the innocent bystanders, easily explaining that they were with their  _friends_ at the mixer, until they left to go home after the final song was played, feeling fairly tired after dancing the night away. Dean pointed out that he's not as young as he used to be, and that he only agreed to go because Sam promised his  _friends_ that he would, and he had always been a man of his word, so it wouldn't have been fair to take that title away from Sam. 

They bought all of their bullshit, leaving soon after. Dean had told Sam that he was proud of him, as he had left Sam to do most of the cleanup. That was usually Dean's responsibility, as he didn't really trust anyone else to do it right, so Sam took that as a huge step in the right direction for them--he knows that he's proving his worth to Dean now, that Dean is accepting him as a part of his life in more ways than one, and that he can put his faith in Sam to get things done. 

Sam's still miffed about what that girl said at the party to him. Three weeks have gone by. That hasn't stopped him from wanting to put his fist in the nearest solid structure each time her face comes into his view. She may have apologized for what she said, blaming it on the alcohol, but that didn't give her any right to suggest that Dean wasn't right for him. She also revealed to him that she had a friend who went through a similar situation. Her plan was to make sure that the same didn't happen again on her watch. It's none of her business, though, so Sam could care less what she thinks of his decision to be with Dean. 

When he told Dean about it, the man laughed in his face. He commented that maybe Sam needs to work a little more on his acting skills, if there's not a single thing that people are seeing that would place them together as a couple. Sam asked if that's how he truly felt about that, and it didn't take long for Dean show on his face that he really wants to show her just how much they actually  _fit_ while they're slicing her up bit by bit. 

In the three weeks since their first kill here, they've dabbled in some more minor activities. Only three so far, but they've covered their tracks well, and even managed to give away something that might point the police in some other suckers direction. They're both not sure if the pigs even have the brains to put something as obvious as that together, but it's out of their hands now. 

Sam's amazed by Dean's process. He's learning so much just from watching the other man. It's amazing how he's already started to put together times and locations that would be better suited for their activities. He's also made a point of changing up their style, so that if the pigs here call for help from other areas, they won't be able to link the murders to the infamous serial killer Dean Winchester. It's not going to happen, not as long as they have anything to say about it. This is only small stuff anyway. The big celebration will come later when the plan is ready to be put into motion. 

No amount of asking has gotten Sam anywhere. He still doesn't know exactly what it is that Dean has up his sleeve for their wedding. Every time he asks, Dean just says that it's a surprise, one that he knows that Sam is going to love. Sam already has the thing that he loves, and there's nothing he loves more than that. More than Dean. . . It's messing with him, though. He keeps getting erections at work just thinking about the possibilities. He snaps a quick picture of his come shot on the bathroom stall to Dean, which is met with a demand for him to video himself licking it off, which he does. After the second time, he just videos the whole thing.

It's strange how  _domestic_ they're becoming. Sam cooks dinner for the two of them, waiting for Dean to get home from work for them to eat together at the table. It's not longer after they have full stomachs that a huge mess is on the floor at the aid of Dean throwing Sam down on the table. It might not be what all the normal couples do, but it works for them. They wake up, fuck. They shower together, then fuck. They have breakfast, then make out with tongues and teeth until they're flushed and panting before leaving for their respective jobs. 

On the weekends, they do something  _special._ They've midway through the week, so they have a few days to wait until they can play, but last Saturday they used a lot of rope, and Sam got a lot of burns, and it was magical. 

Sam's brought from his musings as Jessie, one of his co-workers shoves a wedding catalog under his nose. "Uh, Jessie, I really don't wanna talk wedding right now." 

"Why's that? Did something happen?" 

Sam shrugs, sliding the catalog to the other side of the table. "Nothing happened. I'm just on my break," he waves off, taking a sip of the disgusting brand of coffee that they have here. Members of staff aren't allowed the good stuff, apparently. 

"That's sort of the only time that I get to talk to you about this stuff," Jessie says, taking the seat opposite from him without asking, or being asked. "Actually, that's sort of the only time I get to talk to you, at all." 

Pretending he cares about that is hard, but Sam does his best. "I'm sorry you feel that way. Dean and I are still settling in. He's not so great with people, so. . ."

"He seemed okay at the party," Jessie replies, flicking her hair over her shoulders. "Does he not want you hanging out with us or something?" 

Sam bites the inside of his cheek. She's a ballsy one. He'll have to give her that at least. 

"That's not it. I'm not ready to hang out with people yet. I'm still settling into this place, and Dean's who I feel most comfortable with. That's it, okay?"

Jessie frowns. "Well, if there's anything I can do to make you feel more comfortable, please let me know. I like you, Sam, and I know a lot of us would really like to get to know you better." 

"In time. I promise, okay?" Sam lies. He's not promising a single thing to these people. He'll only  _hang out_ with them if Dean thinks it's the best move to get them closer to their end goal, not that he knows what that is yet. But he trusts Dean, so he'll follow his lead blindly. 

Eventually, she leaves him to his piss-poor coffee. Sam wonders why these rejects are attracted to him. All he did was smile and listen to their bullshit. Is that really how easy it is to have people eating out of the palm of your hands? Sam's not so sure. Dean told him once that everyone has a weakness. He said that once you find that weakness, and manipulate it to your advantage, you practically own them. When Sam asked what his was, Dean grinned toothily, stating that Sam already knew that. 

In some ways, he does. He's Dean's weakness. When those weird dudes who took him in the night finally fell to the floor after he knocked them out with the very gun they threatened him with, the look of relief on Dean's face when he saw him was real. He may have been making it seem like this had been his plan all along, but Sam's sure that he saw true sincerity on Dean's face. Dean might deny it until the cows come home. In fact, he's going to deny it because that's part of his nature. Sam knows it's true, though. He's not going to flaunt it. Maybe some day he'll tease him about it to get a rise out of the man--it's not like he's ever seen Dean flustered before. Might be an interesting spectacle. 

Sam glances at the clock, noting that he's got another few minutes before his break is over. He wishes that they didn't have to work. Working is boring. He would rather be spending all of his time with Dean. Sam feels empty when Dean's not with him. It feels as though there's a wire that keeps itself tightly wrapped around his heart, and that wire extends beyond his chest, growing in length with each step that Dean takes in the other direction. Sam thinks of it as a deep connection that they have. One that can never be severed, because that wire is only visible to them. He's not certain that Dean can see it, too, but Sam knows that he can feel it. He often believes he can hear the beating of Dean's heart in his mind. Yeah, he's crazy. 

Dean's working late tonight. Whatshisface said that the car they have coming in is going to need all of their attention. Sam's not so happy about that. Kind of makes him want to decapitate that guy on the spot for taking up Dean's precious time--Dean's precious time with  _him._ Unfortunately, Dean strictly forbade any killing of those that can actually be linked back to them. Sam reminds himself of that every day when he sees _that_ bitches face. Being careful sucks. It had been so much easier back at their place. . . Sam misses it there. He misses how easy it had been to get around. He misses how much they new about the area, how they knew every nook and cranny of that cesspool of flesh--everything they could ever need had been right there for the taking--ripe with the beating of hearts yet to be severed. 

Sam strides to the bathroom, locking the door behind him on one of the stalls, breathing in deep through his nose. He needs to feel something. He needs to feel alive again just for a few moments. He messages Dean through blurred vision, grinning wickedly when Dean gives him permission to squeeze his balls hard enough to distract him from breathing, hard enough that his legs shake involuntarily, hard enough that the urge to invite someone in here with him slowly disappears into the background. He barely manages to make out what's on the screen in front of him. It's a reminder that they work  _together, not alone,_ and that seems to be enough to clear the haze in Sam's mind. Dean also adds that if he can hold on until he gets back later tonight, then he'll give him something that he'll have a hard time forgetting. 

Twisting the ring on his finger, Sam nods his head, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the collar of his shirt. He replies in earnest that he's looking forward to it, adding a joke about bringing home flowers and chocolates if he expects forgiveness. Sam exits the stall and washes his hands in the sink, splashing his face a few times and blinking his eyes rapidly. 

He can get through this. Dean never breaks his promises, so he knows that if he can get through it, then he's going to be in for something good. 

God, he hopes it involves his body. And blood. And cuts in places that haven't been cut in a long time. Sam swallows the build up in his throat and bites the tip of his thumb in anticipation. 

Tonight is gonna be great. He just knows it. 

 


	37. Blood Bond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam get even closer. Sam is paid a visit from someone.

The side of the blade tracking a path along his skin sends tantalizing shivers all throughout Sam's body. He's waiting for it. He's waiting for the moment the tip pierces the first layer of his flesh, giving the blood stored inside him the chance to trickle out, leaving pools of crimson soaking into the sheets beneath him. Sam wishes he possessed the coherency to ask Dean to not tease him, but he doesn't. A part of him doesn't want to. The sound of his skin being kissed by the blade resonating in his ears strengthens the desire coursing through him at a speed he can only dream of keeping up with. Sam fears that any second now he'll pass out from the anticipation. He also knows that Dean won't let that happen. Not when they're only just now tucking into their appetizer for the evening. 

Sam didn't doubt for a second that Dean wouldn't go back on his word. He knew if he just kept his patience in check, stomped down the desire to fillet one of his co-workers, that Dean would give him this. Dean would give him everything he wants. The ropes are tight around his wrists and ankles, to the point where even a fraction of movement forces them to tear that little bit more into his skin. Sam can't help but gasp at the sensation, hips thrusting up of their own accord, spurred on by the weight of Dean's body settled on top of his knees, keeping him as steady as he can given their current positions. Dean's watching him with the intensity of a wolf ready to rip the throat out of their prey, eyes so full of unbridled focus that Sam loses the ability to breathe temporarily with each glance upwards towards their magnetic influence. 

Their combined bloodlust is unparalleled, creating an all new kind of tension in the room. They see only themselves. They hear only themselves. They  _want_ only themselves. Nothing outside these four walls can even come close to them in this moment. This moment where they are the only force in existence. Their shared breaths are mingling in the space around them. Their eyes are locked on one another. Their hearts are beating as one, as the point of the knife  _finally_ sinks into its first cut of  _meat_ for the night ahead of it. Dean presses in so gently, keeping the course straight and true as the imprisoned blood begins to seep through the precise wound, warm and exhilarating.

Sam moans Dean's name at the point of impact, breathing in deep through his nose as the euphoria crashes through his system, taking over every nerve ending, setting his body aglow with serenity. He knows this is only the beginning for them, for him. He knows that there is more to come. He knows that at any point during this, Dean could go all the way and end him in a heartbeat. And that's what makes the whole affair that much more exciting. That constant understanding that if he's ever to be a burden to the naked man currently keeping him pinned down to the sheets, holding a blade that could quite easily stop the beating of his heart--Dean could  _so easily_ put an end to him. 

As Dean starts to trace more patterns along Sam's skin, Sam shifts his attention to the stream of blood leaving him in quick succession. He focuses on the slide, how each pore reacts to its passing. He clings to the scarlet pool developing at the small of his back, creeping in through the shadows and spaces that it manages to bypass in its path. Sam feels the space around him getting lighter, his limbs softening, releasing the pent-up frustration he's been harboring for quite some time now, allowing him to breathe easier, to trust even greater in Dean's plan for them, to never have to burden himself with worries such as those, when he's confident that they will always find a way to get what they want. Dean has shown him that countless times. He has shown him that Sam can put his undivided faith in him, without any need for trepidation. This world is theirs now. This world belongs to them. 

"You're so beautiful like this, Sammy," Dean comments, eyes prominent with arousal. "I'm one lucky sonofabitch so have you like this. Just for me." 

Sam can do nothing more than nod dazedly, mind fogging over with an impenetrable haze, reinforced by another excursion of the blade into his body, leaking in tandem with the previous laceration.  _This_ is living to Sam. The freedom to lose himself in the moment because the most dangerous human on the planet right now is the one fulfilling his desires. A man that could just as easily abandon him here, leaving him to pick up the pieces of his own life, is putting his own desires on hold to gift Sam with what he needs in this moment. The freedom of that blade, held by a hand with a lifetime of experience, cutting into patches of his flesh without preamble, working its magic to create a masterpiece, and Sam is the easel that keeps it up, offering himself wholeheartedly to its ministrations. 

"The first time I did this to you," Dean begins, positioning the tip at the center of Sam's clavicles, creating a shallow cut before descending slowly and carefully down Sam's form. "I knew that it was what you needed. It's what you were craving. At the time, I was craving you, and I'll admit that. But," Dean informs Sam, keeping his tone light and whisper-soft as he withdraws the blade just above Sam's navel. "I could still see through the want that I felt, and that you needed that more than I did. You kept so much in. So much doubt. So much hate. So much  _regret_ and  _fear_ that you never allowed yourself a chance to relax." 

Sam watches and listens as Dean places the knife by Sam's side, pressing his hands on either side of Sam's ribcage and leaning in until their lips are just a fraction away from connecting. "And then you did relax. You felt all of your worries and your fears  _bleeding_ out of you, almost cleansing you entirely, didn't you?" Sam agrees sharply, darting his eyes all over Dean's devilishly handsome face. "And that's when you realized what you wanted, right? That you  _needed_ me to do this for you, didn't you?" Sam bites his lip, his body almost deflating at the brutal honesty and belief in Dean's eyes that his words are nothing but the truth. "You don't have to say anything, Sammy. I know it without needing you to."

A wave of something ripples through him then, as Dean retrieves the blade, placing the coated tip at the center of his own clavicles, piercing the flesh just like he did to Sam, and guiding it to the exact same place. Sam groans as Dean's blood starts to drip onto his skin, blending with his own, coming together to form larger droplets that flow down the sides of his body. Sam watches Dean's blood leave him, so vibrant and all-encompassing as it falls like icicles after an avalanche. They lock eyes after a few moments, and Sam forgets how to move as Dean lowers himself until the shallow lines made in their skin press together, sealing a bond that could never be torn apart in an eternity. Dean's blood is flowing into Sam's body. It's making its way into his bloodstream, traveling around the entirety of his form--this is something that he never even dreamed would happen. 

"Do you trust me?" 

Sam doesn't even hesitate. "Of course, Dean. Always."

"Good," Dean replies, sealing their lips for a drunken kiss, sloppy and full of need. "If I could crawl inside you and live there, I would."

Sam laughs. "Is this your way of doing that?"

"Not exactly," Dean denies, burying his hands in Sam's hair. "But at least this way, there will  _always_ be a part of me inside you. No matter _what_ happens." 

"You're not planning on leaving me, are you?" Sam questions jokingly, although a sliver of anxiety travels up his back. 

"That's never going to happen, Sammy. For now, though, we need to get you cleaned up. You haven't got much time left before you bleed out."

Sam follows Dean with his eyes as he exits the room, possibly leaving to grab some supplies to patch Sam up. He kind of wishes that he could stay like this for a while longer, but he's lost too much blood. The fact that Dean is planning on keeping him alive just washes his anxieties away. Dean swore he would never leave him. And like he said, there will always be a part of Dean now. Always and forever. Sealed away in his body, never to be let out again. Sam can't help the rush of  _want_ he feels when he thinks about that particular part. He'll have to show Dean just how much he appreciates it when the man's finished nursing his wounds. Then, he's going to sink down on that cock that was pressed against his own just several minutes ago and ride Dean until he can't manage to move his legs any longer. Then Dean can take over. 

* * *

 

Sam's feeling particularly tingly today as he goes about his business, waiting tables for people that are so far beneath him and Dean that they can't even see the faintest patch of light. He's certain that someday soon they'll be on their knees for them, and the only ones who will be taking orders are their sorry asses. The urges have been dealt with for now. He's not being attacked by them left, right and center, although they only seemed to worm their way in whenever he wasn't with Dean. Perhaps now that a part of Dean is swimming around his body, it's making it far more easier to keep himself in check? Sam doesn't know. He's not sure that it really matters, as long as it stops him from disappointing the one person in the world that he never wishes to anger. 

Dean had been so gentle with him when he patched up his wounds. Sam remembers being quite dazed and confused at the time, wondering if he was going to have the strength to even go through with what he had planned for the two of them once clean-up was over. In the end, he hadn't managed to go all out. Instead, Dean told him to just slowly rock back and forth, and that they can go at it hard and fast another night. It didn't take any time for Sam to agree to that, although he really had wanted to prove to Dean just how much he appreciates him. Nevertheless, what will be will be, and Sam will just have to pick up where they left off some other time. 

Sam wonders to himself when their plan is going to start. As far as he can tell, they're going to have a normal wedding. They haven't picked a date yet, and they don't really care about the traditional stuff involved with a wedding, so Sam's not even thought about it. As far as they're concerned, all they need are some witnesses. It's almost laughable, really. All of their happy faces--not knowing that they would have just been privy to the awakening of a matrimony that will strike fear into the hearts of many for decades to come. Sam gets a buzz just thinking about it. 

When Sam feels the urge to relieve himself, he puts a pin in his wonderings and heads to the bathroom. He's not doing  _that_ today, so he won't have to make up some excuse about why he took so long in the bathroom afterward to whatsherface. Pretending that he's embarrassed and secretive is a pain sometimes, but it's what they have to do for the time being. 

He steps into one of the stalls and takes care of his business, tucking himself back in his jeans and flushing the toilet. Once he's sealed up and made sure that the plug Dean slid in him this morning didn't un-catch, smirking when he feels that it's still firmly in place, he ducks out of the stall to start washing his hands. As he turns the tap, he notices something in his periphery. Sam peers up to check the mirror in front of him for another presence in the room, when what he sees staring back at him stills his movements for a moment.  

It's his face. It's his nose, his mouth, his everything. . . But the person in the mirror shouldn't be able to move of their own accord. They should only move when the one using it does. 

"Let me out," Sam's reflection demands, attempting to pin him with a sharp stare full of intent. 

Sam arches an eyebrow derisively. "Excuse me? You're pretty demanding for a hallucination." 

"Yeah, I guess that's what this would look like. But I'm not. I'm you. The real you. You're just an imposter."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Sam snaps, attempting to keep his voice down. "I must have eaten something weird or whatever. That's it." 

"No, that's not it," mirror-Sam says, running a hand through his hair. "You're the side of me that let that asshole brainwash you."

"Who?" Sam bites back his question, feeling an overwhelming sense of defensiveness towards the unnamed  _asshole._

"Dean. The man who killed my Mother, and took everything from me. . . Including my mind--and body."

Sam puts his fist into the mirror. He'll make up a reason as to why it's broken later. Right now, he needs to get out of here. What the hell was that? Who the hell was that? And what the hell were they even talking about? He's not an imposter. That douche in the mirror with the puppy eyes is the imposter. Clearly, he ate something he shouldn't have. Or Dean did and didn't tell him about it, and is probably having just as weird a trip as he just did. 

Sighing, Sam washes the blood off his hand in the sink, shoulders tense with foreboding. 

 

 


	38. The Knife has a Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam hasn't told Dean about his meeting with himself in the bathroom.

Sam can't seem to shake that look of anger and resentment reflected back at him in the mirror yesterday. There's something about the raw emotion that leads Sam to believe that he couldn't have just been hallucinating those events. First and foremost, it wouldn't make any sense for him to be conjuring up images of a replica of himself labelling him an imposter. No, that would just be lunacy. Sam's contemplated talking to Dean about the subject, but he's not sure how he would react to the information right about now. Dean's been working hard on putting together routes for them to be able to have their fun and quench their thirsts. Sam needs to respect that Dean's got enough on his plate, and perhaps deal with this one on his own. After all, he wants to be useful to Dean. Not always going to him with his problems might be a way to make that a reality. Sam knows that Dean would make the time for him if he really needed it, but this isn't the time for him to be selfish. 

Since the event, Sam's been making an effort to avoid mirrors. He's assuming that if he finds himself in front of one, then there may be a repeat between himself and his doppleganger. Sam has questions about it. Of course he does. They're eating away at his brain, for he knows that he hasn't consumed anything that would lead him to fashion illusions out of nowhere. Questions will have to wait until later, however. It wouldn't be good for him to be caught red-handed talking to himself, what with Dean's sensitivity to sounds. It wouldn't take him long to figure out where said sounds are coming from and make a move to investigate. 

Sam realizes that this is the first time that he has ever kept something from Dean. To be fair, he's only withholding the truth, as he hasn't actually been asked about it yet. So he's not technically lying. Still, it doesn't stop him from feeling bad. Dean deserves to know everything. That should be enough for him to walk up to him and tell him straight what happened yesterday at work, but he prevents himself from doing it each time. He tells himself that Dean doesn't  _really_ need to know. It could just be a one time thing that will never happen again, so there's no need to even worry about it.

Sam watches Dean's back as he walks towards the door to leave for work. Sam doesn't have work today. He called Whatstheirface to cover for him so he could take the day. Mostly, he just didn't want to end up in that bathroom again. Knowing him, if he did go to work, then he would find himself there at several points during his shift, as it's the only way that he can escape those neanderthals. He thought it would be better for him to just wait his day out at home. With the time that he has now, he can even make dinner for Dean. Sam knows that Dean is a better cook than him, but he's certain that he'll appreciate the thought. All he has to do is put something greasy together, since that's Dean's go-to. Yeah, Sam'll just do that. He'll lose himself in cooking, which he's a complete amateur at, and hopefully put together something that resembles a meal by the time Dean gets home in around eight hours. 

Clapping his hands together, Sam heads for the kitchen. He's sure that he can do this. He's watched Dean cook plenty of times. Once, he even sat there and read Cook Books. He's got this in the bag. At least, he thinks he does. If cooking turns out to be one of those things that seem easier than it actually is, then he might be screwed here. Sam shrugs, searching the draws for an apron he can put on while he gets things started. He doesn't really care if he turns out to be an awful cook, but he's going to make the effort. The important thing here, is that it's good enough for Dean. Whether that turns out to be something Sam cooked up or takeout from one of the local restaurants, either way is a win. 

Sam grabs a pot that he assumes is for Stew. A basic concept. Just throw things in the pot and make sure it's piping hot before serving. All Sam has to do is find some ingredients, chuck them into the pot, and let the Hobs do the rest of the work for him. That shouldn't be a problem. As long as he has the things that he needs, this should be easy. Sam's never prepared a Stew before, but he's sure that it's one of those things that someone can learn along the way. If he gets stuck, he could always consult the internet.

After Sam's filled the pot with water, he switches on the top-left Hob and leaves it to heat up, while he grabs provisions from the fridge. He lays them out on top of the island. A mixture of vegetables; carrots, swede, broccoli, cauliflower, etc. Leaving them there for a second, Sam moves to grab a knife. He's not sure which one to use for cutting the vegetables, so he opts for the smallest one. He pulls it from its holder, checking it to make sure that it's clean and not blunted at the tip.

_We make dinner now?"_

Sam flinches, almost dropping the knife. He holds it up to his eye, spotting the basic outline of his reflection, almost completely obscured by the lights. It's far too blurry for him to be able to make out anything much other than his complexion. For now, he decides that his focus may have been briefly pulled to the events of yesterday, and pivots to return to his work station.

_I'm in your head now, fake. What the hell do you think you're doing? Why are you making dinner for that maniac? And the funny thing is that you actually want him to enjoy it. Did you forget that cooking was never really an option for me because I never gave myself the time? I only had one goal._

"Who the hell are you?" Sam snaps, throwing the knife at the wall. It falls to the floor, clattering against the ground for a few beats before stilling. Sam watches it with caution, backing into the table. "If you're here, come out. There's no need to play mind games. We can settle this man to man." 

_The better question is, who the hell are you? You're a safety blanket._

Sam frowns. "A what?" 

_You keep the monster away. Or, you did. But then you became one._

Confusion hits Sam like a ton of bricks. He has the urge to know more about this. He's not even clear on who exactly he's talking to, but he finds himself walking over to where the knife fell earlier and bending down to pick it back up. He examines it again, holding it further away from himself to see if that makes the slightest bit of difference. It doesn't. Frustrated, he breaks his rule from earlier and heads towards the nearest mirror in the house, located opposite the stairs by the front door. Still clutching the knife in his hand, he stands tall in front of the mirror, moving his head from side to side, assuming his reflection would move with him. It doesn't. It's standing still. There's a look of judgment on its face, focused intently on him. 

"What is this?"

_This is reality._

Sam scoffs. "Reality has talking mirrors in it? That's rich." 

His reflection scowls at him. 

_You don't get it. I'm a part of you. That's why I can show up like this. That's why you can see me._

"Then how come I haven't seen you until now?" Sam feigns upset. 

_I was in mourning._

Sam crosses his arms over his chest and leans closer. His reflection is suddenly avoiding eye contact with him. Sam would even go as far as to say that what he's saying actually seems true from the way that he's reacting. What would he have to mourn, though? If he's some dormant part of him that hasn't seen the sunlight in a long-ass time, what could he possibly be sad about? What could he have lost that actually meant something to him? Sam shrugs openly, making a sound of annoyance as though his time is very limited, and this jackass is wasting it. 

"What about?" 

_Bobby._

Giving that about five seconds before walking away, Sam quickly runs back to the kitchen to check that the water is boiled and ready. He doesn't have time to deal with this right now. He's got a Stew to prepare for Dean, and it has to be perfect. Or, as perfect as he can manage with his lack of experience. He ignores the words crossed between himself and his reflection for now. They're not important. 

Not even a little. 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	39. A Shark's Gotta Eat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has a hunger that he just can't tamp down anymore.

A few days before now, Dean returned home from an arduous session at work that would have broken a weaker man, to discover that every single mirror in his temporary home had been obliterated beyond repair. Dean's first thought had been something along the lines of high-pitched sound waves that could result in the destruction of the receptacles, only it would have also shattered the windows. Understanding that the only explanation for the state of the floors had to have been physical, it hadn't taken Dean that much longer to locate the source of the mirrors' demise casually attending to an aromatic pot of flavors resting atop a heated hob, juxtapose with a separate pot, attributed with scorch marks, and permeating a rather malodorous creation into the air surrounding them.

Sam's explanation for his actions seem _fair_ , however, it does in turn call to question his thought process, for he could have quite easily accomplished this stint into _anarchy_ the first day that they moved in here. Dean's not certain that Sam could very well lie to him, although if he is indeed being honest, his timing is wildly behind schedule. Sam's reasons are that mirrors reflect the happenings occurring in their home and that the correct angle could entitle an onlooker to a _spectacle_ that is not for them to see. Dean can make sense of Sam's tact--it's the peculiarity of the circumstances that aren't boding well with him.

As it stands, Dean finds himself facing tribulations on a daily basis. The mundanity of this life--toiling for an honest buck, the artless facade he has to ossify in order to encumber any-and-all the locals from discovering his true nature--are becoming more and more taxing with each day that passes them by. Dean is not a man of many regrets. This, however, is testing the boundaries of his _temperance_ greatly.

The plan of action that he set in motion all those weeks ago, secluded in one of the finest cabins onboard, ornate in its beauty, could not be more faultless, _at the time_. What he failed to account for is the voracity he finds himself saddled with due to his own unscrupulous desire to announce to the world the inviolable unity between himself and Sam, in a scintillating and malevolent manner.

Dean's had to starve himself before. He _knows_ his limitations, and he understands that the restraints that he's placed on himself are going to fold in due course. At this point, it's imperative that he secure a way to soothe the tempestuous desires waging a war inside him. Dean understands that it's time for him to feed. It's time for him to satiate his appetite before he loses all semblance of control, no longer able to _sustain_ the urges that are paramount to his very existence.

This isn't his _usual_ play. He prefers his victims to be full of innocence and hope, unburdened by the concept that any day could be their last day on Earth. Dean relishes the feeling of unbridled satisfaction that inundates his system, sending shocks of want and need through his veins, as the pleasure of being the one to eradicate that blissful ignorance is given to him _time and time again_. Unfortunately, that's not going to be the case for him on his current endeavor. _Miscreants_ have never been his forte, as he finds them rather tedious, and lacking the normal requirements for him to seize even a modicum of exhilaration, however, in these times of _hardships_ , Dean's going to have to set aside his disenchantment so that he can circumvent the growing need in the pit of his stomach.

While Sam is busy serving what could be considered equivalent to dog food to the locale, Dean is working on procuring himself a _sloppy_ meal of his own. As he previously construed, the venue for this illegal poker game is being held in the basement of a dilapidated building located in one of the most insipid parts of Makaha, known to be one of the more highly poverty-stricken parts of Hawaii. The door, for lack of a better description, is what appears to be a towel pinned to the structure which should be holding a real door in place. Dean pushes it aside with the back of his hand, wiping his palm against the material of his jeans immediately afterwards. Ignoring the repugnant odor encompassing the entirety of the small enclosure, Dean ventures down the stairs, drawing closer to the noxious vapor dancing around the room in transitory rings, slowly elevating in wisps towards the propagating cloud of acrid smoke.

Eyes are on him the moment he has both feet on the ground. His hands go up in the universal symbol of peace, mollifying their perfunctory instincts to _shoot-what-does-not-belong._ Dean finds himself a seat as the occupants of the room return to their endless chatter, puffing on their cigarettes and knocking back ethanol-infused shots designed to render them intoxicated. He's not sure how long exactly he can keep up his _charade_ of eager-gambler when it's taking everything he has in him not to just get started right this second.

Dean casts his eyes over the room, calculating in his head the number of recalcitrant morons stinking up the joint like a bad pot-roast. From his estimations, he counts ten-- _five_ of which are packing heat. If Dean can ostracize the ones that are armed, it will increase his chances of executing his plan without so much as a scratch on himself. Leaving this place with tears in his shirt, or gun-shot wounds would come across shady, at best, if he's not able to liberate them of their weapons without a mistake.

Taking all of that into account, Dean deliberates that his best course of action here is to manipulate them into giving up their weapons as part of the pot. If that's to be his move, he has to ensure that he gives them a pretty good incentive, without accidentally casting the _spotlight_ on himself. Not that that would deter him from his end game here--gunshots or not, he's _going_ to procure exactly what he came for.

"Gentlemen, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," Dean says, motioning his hand over the room. "Now that I have your attention, I'd like to make this interesting before it begins."

"And how do you wanna do that, eh,haole?" a man whose teeth have seen better days replies a few seats down, seemingly humored by Dean's statement.

"Well, I'm feeling rather lucky today, so I'd like to propose that everyone put everything they've got on the table for one round only," Dean conveys, not the least bit astonished that something that simple could so effortlessly reel in their interest. "Now, I come from an opulent--that means wealthy, by the way--background that has allowed me to lead a pretty, I'd say, extravagant life, and I'm more than willing to share some of that extravagance with you people, if you--any of you--, can best me in just one round of poker."

"Why should we believe you?"

Dean smirks, holding his hand out in mock-oath. "I'd say Scouts Honor, but I was never a Scout."

For a few moments, looks are exchanged, weighing the opportunity presented before them in such a conceited manner, ultimately becoming more affable with each second that passes, as they would be fools to pass on this opportunity to seize someone else's wealth.

As they all relieve themselves of their belongings, Dean tracks the movements of their eyes, possibly silently communicating with each other that they have this in the bag, blithely unaware of the fact that as soon as all of their guns are on the table, it's going to be lights out for them. If they were smart--and Dean's _certain_ that they're indeed not--they would be using these last moments to message whoever out there actually gives a rats ass about them, that they'll miss them, or something profoundly poetic. Dean doesn't care. They're either going to help him quell his appetite for a few beats, or they're not going to even be enough for him to keep the beast locked in its cage. Only time will tell on that one, and it's about time he got to eat.

Dean positions his hands underneath the table and locks his knees. He keeps his lips neutral, without deception, and follows the click-clack of the last gun sliding down the small mountain of Pistols and such with renewed vigor. In the instance that the last person takes a step back, Dean unleashes a bout of brute strength to flip the table onto its back, securely sealing the weapons in place somewhere in the center. Dean doesn't have the luxury of admiring the subtle tilt of the table, as he extracts one of his trusty blades from its leather containment, quickly slitting the throat of the man closest to his right, admiring the blood spattering from his neck like a water sprinkler set to standby.

He grins like that of a predator, evading the punch meant for the side of his face with a quick dive to the other side of the askew table, using the momentum from his ascension to thrust his blade through his next victims chin, penetrating the back of their head in the process. Panic rises in the room, dampening the atmospheric pressure, anxiety developing at a rapid rate. Cigarettes that have yet to reach their inevitable end fall to ground, slowly burning away as the violence continues. Dean drops his third body of the night, slicing from navel to clavicle in one flick of his wrist, relishing the gooey sound of the man's innards dropping onto the floor like a sack of shit.

The sounds of begs and pleads, as well as words of discontent barely touch his senses. He has enough mind to comprehend that the fear is diminishing all thoughts of bravery, with the display that they're witnessing before their very eyes, paralyzing them, figuratively robbing them of their abilities to move their legs, to run for the exit. They're in a tank with a S _hark_ , and its got them surrounded--they've already accepted that they're not going to make it out of this without even having attempted it.

All they can do is exist as spectators for the last brief moments of their lives, dumbstruck by the man painting the vicinity with the blood of their fallen compatriots, effortlessly delivering laceration after laceration to the ones left standing, almost as if they're waiting for their time to come to an end, by the hand of a _true artist_ , using the hard floor as his canvas, preferring to utilize just one family of colors on the spectrum--the color of blood. The color of _life_ and _death_.

As some might suggest, the sand in their hour glasses are releasing the last grains to join the pile that has been formulating--converging together since the very first breath they took as they were delivered from the womb that once homed them. Everything that has ever transpired in their lives has all been leading up towards this final moment. _Their final moment._ The final moment where they realize that they're lives never really had meaning-- _never really had a purpose_. They're now being hit with the only epiphany that matters, and that's that they were just a means of sustenance for the bigger players in the picture. They were never going to amount to anything. Not today, and especially not tomorrow. They made bad choices because it wouldn't have altered the impending knowledge that their fates have been sealed, irrevocably etched into time and space that this would be the day that they die.

When the last body hits the ground, Dean drops his hands to his knees, breathing through the adrenaline fluctuating his entire being, pleased that those insignificant pieces of trash were enough to grant him a thrill. He has them to thank for that. Now, he has to solve the issue of covering his tracks. He'll have to think back on the kill later. For now, he's got to manipulate whoever happens to walk in on this that it was a brawl gone wrong, and in order for him to do that, he needs to gather some knives, and get the prints that he needs for it to be convincing.   
 


	40. Not an Empty Threat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's found a way to get back at the voice in his head. It goes South later.

Sam takes Dean's cock down to the root in his mouth, the taste of him deep in his throat, the smooth texture a memory for his tongue to compartmentalize, savoring the familiar flavor known to him for what seems like an eternity now. The demanding hand at the back of his head gives him a sensation of belonging, enabling him to silence the nagging voice inside his head that screams for this to stop. It just encourages Sam to go that much further, to build up the saliva in his mouth, to pull off Dean's cock with a reflective string of spit connecting them at the slit. The heated glance from above him, filled with desire and ownership tracks the movement of his tongue licking a strip from base to tip, needing to experience the weight of the heat resting in his mouth, releasing a small pool of come into the center, warm in its nature, and cherished by Sam's senses. He has the man that he loves right where he wants him--where he needs him to be in this moment. All of the confusing flashes of memories from a time unknown to him take a back seat as the power of Dean's overwhelming will shatters them like glass, affording him the much needed peace that he's holding onto now.

Without needing to say a word, Sam knows that Dean senses exactly what he's yearning for in this moment. Dean fists Sam's hair in his hand, vice-like, as he pushes himself as deep as he can manage down Sam's throat, aware that he's choking him, however in a controlled sense. They both know that he could pull out if he wanted to, but that he could also end him right here, right now, if he so desired. Sam braces his hands behind him, ignoring the throbbing pain in his knees, so that he can make his resolve clear, that this is what he needs from Dean--that he needs to be shown just exactly who he belongs to, that there is nothing that can come between them, past or present, or future.

Angling his head for a more secure angle, Sam keeps his eyes steady and firm on Dean's, cataloguing the ecstasy for what's happening between them. He can see just how much Dean is loving this. He can see that Dean is getting close. He can see that Dean couldn't be happier that he didn't have to work today, if this is what he could have possibly missed out on. He sees the man that he idolizes gaining pleasure from his body. It gives him a purpose in life, to know that he can satisfy Dean's needs--to know that he's not going to wake up alone one day in their bed, wondering what he could have done to ensure that Dean stayed. Sam has no fear that he will ever be without Dean. It's not conceitedness that gives him the impression that he's somewhat special. It's the compelling argument that Dean has never taken anything this far with someone. This is a first for both of them. He's not alone in his insecurities due to his lack of experience or expertise in this particular area. They're taking this journey into the unknown together.

Dean groans deeply as he releases streams of come down Sam's throat, inhaling and exhaling to get his breath back as he bends to stroke his fingers under Sam's chin, helping him to relax and swallow each and every drop. Sam lets the tears fall from his eyes, gagging after the third swallow. He breathes in deep when Dean steps back, slipping free from Sam's mouth, using his thumb to push the last remnants back into Sam's mouth, licking his lips at the sight of Sam slowly dragging his lips off his thumb, moaning around the digit pressing down against his tongue.

"If I knew that all I had to do was say I was driving to the store real quick to get you all hot and bothered, I would have used that line a lot sooner."

Sam has a small laugh to himself, wiping his lips with the back of his hand and rising to his feet. "You and I both know that all you have to do is say when," Sam replies, tucking Dean back into his boxers, brushing their lips together as he speaks.

"That's true," he agrees, trapping Sam's bottom lip between his teeth until it's nice and red, and then thrusts his tongue in for a quick, deep kiss. "You'd be my dog if that's what I wanted, right?"

"Sure. But I'd hate to have to bark," Sam stipulates, walking with a sway in his step to the kitchen counter.

"I could get you a collar," Dean almost purrs, burying his nose in the side of Sam's neck and aligning their bodies.

"What would you inscribe on it?"

Dean teases the skin of Sam's neck with his lips until he's just level with his ear. "Property of Dean Winchester, obviously."

Sam laughs fondly. "Was there ever really any question?"

"You know the answer to that," Dean states confidently, breaking the contact to grab a drink from the fridge. "So, when are you gonna tell me what's been going on with you?"

Dipping his head in slight shame, Sam turns around to face Dean's surprisingly patient scrutiny. "I wouldn't want you to worry about it."

"Those are the very words that _anyone_ says when it's _worth_ worrying about," Dean counters, eyebrow raised in incredulity. "Now, look, I really don't want to do this because we have a great thing going here, but the type of torture I usually dish out isn't as effective on you when you've done something wrong, like it used to be," he explains, twisting the cap of his beer bottle and pushing the fridge door shut. Dean holds deep eye contact as he takes a few long pulls of his drink before depositing it on the counter. "So, here's what's gonna happen. If you're gonna insist on keeping whatever this is from me, then from this moment on, I'm not gonna touch you."

Sam shakes off the pleased affirmation in his head, weighing which of his options are the lesser of two evils. He could tell Dean that another version of himself is trying to take over his mind, however he's drastically unsure of what the result of that will be. It could end in Dean never trusting him with anything again, if he's not even strong enough to eradicate this meager threat that just won't seem to get the message. On the other hand, the idea of Dean _not_ touching him manifests a feeling of dread in the pit of stomach. He's not sure that he could even continue to breathe without Dean's touch. . . It would be like losing a part of himself that's larger than his very being. As far as Sam understands, sex is second to shedding blood when it comes to Dean--this wouldn't be just an empty threat, not that Dean hands those out lightly. Not once, actually. Sam's torn. Both options are a nightmare waiting to happen. . .

"Dean--please, uh. . . It's complica--"

Dean holds up his hand, and Sam immediately closes his mouth, swallowing the sudden weighty lump in his throat.

"You've made your choice, Sam. Keep whatever it is to yourself, but from this moment onward, no touching," Dean clarifies, face neutral.

"I'm sor--"

"Save it," Dean snaps dismissively. "I'm going to the store."

Sam lowers himself to the floor, using the side of the counter as a support for his back. His head meets his hands, covering the upset displayed on his face. The sound of the front door closing provokes his shoulders to shake in frustration. He can't believe that this voice in his head is coming between them. If Sam didn't feel like this was a personal threat towards Dean-- _this voice--_ then he would have had no problem outing the son of a bitch. Unfortunately, this is an internal problem. The less Dean knows about it, the better. Sam can't have Dean thinking that he's losing his mind. They've come too far for something as irritating as _this_ to hold them back. He'll solve this problem. When he does, he'll tell Dean all about it, and just hope to all hopes that Dean forgives him.

"So, is this what you wanted?" Sam interrogates the room, bumping his head back against the counter to get its attention. "You wanted Dean out of the picture, is that it? Huh? Because he's _the Devil_ or whatever, and that he _ruined_ my life."

_Why didn't you tell him?_

"Why do you care?" Sam shoots back with a huff, banging his head once more for emphasis. 

_Because that lunatic is the one that got rid of me in the first place, but you're the one that let it happen._

Sam frowns, shaking his head at the thought. It's official. He's killed people. Tortured people. In ways that are hard to imagine, and yet this is going to be the thing that breaks him? No way. He can deal with this. He _will_ deal with this. There is no way in Hell that he's going to be seen as a failure in Dean's eyes. Not as long as his body draws breath, and these hallucinations are not going to get the better of him. Sam would sooner  _die_ before he ever allowed something as unthinkable as that to happen under Dean's watch. He will not be an embarrassment.  

"If you know what's good for _you,_ you'll be more careful from now on just _how_ you talk about Dean."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah. just something I cooked up. >8D


End file.
